Death's Cradle Never Was This Soft To Me
by MomotsukiNezumi
Summary: Nico wasn't quite the same after Bianca's untimely passing left him alone. When your very existence is considered a crime, the world, mortal and otherwise, is cold when not cruel. Living on the streets alone, and unwelcome at the only camp you'd be safe at is bad. Living in a palace whose inhabitants are as unfeeling as the stone of the walls isn't good either. A friend, however...
1. Author's Note

For those of us who have read the wonderful series _Percy Jackson and the_ _Olympians_, it's a known fact that after Bianca's tragic demise, Nico's life went down the drain. His father Hades, I must say, was certainly not the most loving or nurturing parental figure. Given the sad fact that most deities never get the chance to be around their numerous children for any period of time lasting more than a few precious moments, you might think that Nico might've been entitled to have gotten at least a _little _bit of genuine outwards affection just for being himself. Sadly, this was not the case, at least not for quite some time.

In the mortal world, we probably would've called such unfortunate treatment "neglect"; in Nico's case, he probably would have called it "normal".

The fact that he lived with his sister for most of his life, and now has to live without her for the rest of it, is really quite sad. The fact that he also lived on the streets for quite some time, and then had to deal with living in such a melancholy place as the Underworld, was probably just as bad, if not worse. A father who you never even knew about for most of your life, no idea who your mother was until he was willing to give you a few meager scraps of information, no sister to rely on anymore, your "stepmom" doesn't even care that you're alive, and your new "home" is the gloomiest palace in the whole Underworld, where the only real regular companions are the ghosts and skeletons who work for you. No chance of seeing your mother either, considering that she is, unfortunately, the only ghost you are forbidden to see. And you only get fully accepted at camp AFTER the battle's over and your father is given gratitude by the other Olympians.

Man, his life was _awful_.

However, I don't think that anyone should deserve such a life. I also believe that Nico should've gotten some kind of decent company, and, as insane as it sounds, I believe that this company should be the lovely harvest goddess Demeter.

Now, before I receive huge amounts of flaming and criticism for such an apparently preposterous and asinine concept, please hear me out.

Demeter, bless her maternal, cereal-crazed self, is shown in the books, essentially, as Hades' mother-in-law from Hell (no pun intended), with an obsession with grain, and, by association, cereal. Her visits to her daughter, Hades' lovely wife Persephone, goddess of spring, apparently cause massive amounts of annoyance and stress to Hades, because like many good mothers, Demeter is convinced that no one, god or not, is good enough for her little girl (and thus she constantly criticizes and complains during these visits).

However, she IS shown in Mythology, in addition to her wondrous powers of crop production, as being a very good mother and homemaker, being kind and nurturing to her children and those in her care. Add this to the unfortunate fact that Nico had no true mother figure in his life (aside from Bianca, who looked out for him, and is now dead), and stayed as a somewhat unwanted guest in his father's palace in the Underworld for some time, he likely would've had some time around her during her visits in which to wonder what it would be like, even for a moment, to experience the affection of a mother's love.

So, I've decided to try my hand at establishing a tentative sort of friendship between them, which I hope to make into an amiable, if not truly loving, relationship. This should give Nico the opportunity to have a decent mother figure to give him some well-deserved affection, and Demeter the opportunity to act motherly and loving towards someone who essentially was starved of it after his sister's death.

If you do read this story, please, for the love of Hestia, NO FLAMING. I'll take comments, reviews, and criticism from readers, viewers, visitors, etc., but flaming is cruel and offensive to us aspiring writers. Please, be honest, but not rude. It only ruins peoples' self-esteem and writing dreams.


	2. Chapter 1: Dreaming the cold away

It was cold. That was the first thought that entered Nico di Angelo's mind as he looked over his new room in his father's palace: a dark, silent room in the shape of an octagon, with cold black marble for walls, streaked with veins of silver and molten gold. There were torches on the walls to give off light, but the light was cold, an icy blue, tinged with white, sitting in a suspended flickering ball in each black torch holder.

There were a few pieces of furniture, but nothing to give off any sort of personal touch: a long, narrow table with a spindly metal chair pulled up to it, a narrow bed with a blanket, sheets, and pillow, and an ancient-looking steamer trunk in black leather, with polished silver buckles and an ornate keyhole. There was a long mirror set into a smoke-colored gothic frame hung on the otherwise bare marble walls; the mirror's surface was bizarre, looking at first glance like the foil trick glass one might find in a house of mirrors, then changing to a strange, misty appearance, with fogged figures moving in and out of the mirror's frame. Nico tried not to look at it; the changing surface seemed unsettling.

There were no windows. Nico was reminded uncomfortably of the fact that he was miles underground, and thus there would be no use for a window, but the fact that there was not so much as a single window, even a small one, was still worrisome. Windows let in light, warmth, _sunshine_. There was no sunshine in the Underworld, only a cold, dark, endless ceiling of black, uneven stalagmites jutting down like the crooked teeth of nightmare monsters. There were no stars either, to give out even a hint of light, only blackness, a shadowy abyss that stubbornly drenched the subterranean world below in cold, empty space.

The demigod shivered slightly in the emotionless room before him. The air was so cold, the smell dusty, decayed, full of smoke and ashes and fire and death, of rotting flesh and exposed bone and blood and dirt, and for some reason, old, musky cologne, embalming fluid and mothballs, like in a funeral home. He couldn't avoid it, the smell was everywhere, clinging like a leech to every building, every spirit, every single thing he'd encountered down here. It was painful. It was noxious.

It was death. He smelled death, _everywhere. _

There was no escape from it either; it was as if in the underworld, all his senses had been sent into overdrive, amplifying every single touch, smell, sight, sound, taste. He tasted ashes in his mouth when he ate his meals, he smelled acrid, burning flesh when he passed by the pits where condemned souls were trapped, he heard the screams and moans and cries of the dead when he tried, often without luck, to go to sleep. It was too intense to take, sometimes. He'd wander the halls of the palace, sometimes for hours, just in a futile attempt to escape the feelings.

His company down here, if they could even be called that, was meager at best, pitiful at worst. His father was distant at best, cold and silent otherwise. Every attempt Nico had made thus far at breaching Hade's frigid wall of apathy was rebuffed and ignored as if he'd never even spoken. His wife Persephone was little better in relations; beautiful but coldly formal, Nico endured her polite but detached interactions, limited as they were, with as much silence as he could. There was little chance, at least in his case, of developing friendly relations with his "stepmother"; why would she have any reason to act kindly to a living product of her husband's infidility?

As for Demeter, Nico was not quite sure what to think of her. The harvest goddess had the sort of advancing disdain that accompanies graceful aging, giving her a pretty, yet formal air. Nico hadn't talked to her very much, she had seemed far too preoccupied with criticizing his father and every single thing he did, past or present. Nico wondered if it was because she loved her daughter Persephone so much, or simply because she was the only woman capable of driving his father from the room just by opening her mouth and talking. She also seemed to be inordinately fond of cereal, all types of it, from what he could see; he supposed that it made sense, seeing as she was the goddess of grain, and that was the chief base of cereals. However, he'd never actually seen anyone other than her eat it, given that Hades and Persephone always mysteriously had excuses as to why they couldn't eat it, and the other inhabitants of the palace were all dead, the skeleton guards and staff Hades had conjured as servants, and the few ghosts that occasionally flitted through the walls because they'd gotten lost on the way to processing.

He'd been here only a few weeks, and already he was wishing he'd never come down. There was no one to talk to, apart from the ghosts, and even then, they only talked to him because he'd summoned them. He'd visited the places where the dead would go, but there was never anything really interesting: the Fields of Asphodel were all full of the same sorts of people, with the same petty problems and boring life stories, Tartarus was a place he assumed, as the Titans' prison, he was forbidden to go anywhere near, the Fields of Punishment would likely induce nightmares, and Elysium was, quite ironically, too depressing, since their lives were so cheerful and good that it was almost sickening to him in comparison to his own current existence, as were the Isles of the Blessed.

His sister Bianca would not respond to his summons as often anymore, and when she did, he often became overwhelmed with longing, and would argue with her about trying to bring her back. Recently, she'd stopped coming entirely, and that hurt. His mother was also a melancholy subject, seeing as he knew, to his inward despair, that he was incapable of summoning her, even for a moment. Maria di Angelo was the one spirit he was forbidden to see, and the fact that he was unable to see the person he'd wanted to know for his entire life seemed too cruel to bear thinking about.

So, as decent company was virtually nonexistent, Nico had to find ways to amuse himself. Days, even nights, would be spent wandering through the Fields of Asphodel, hiding away in the thick fields of grains and corn until a Kindly One would come, irritable as usual, to fetch him back to the palace for another gloomy night. Other times, he'd walk along the banks of the underworld's rivers, coming close to the edges of the water, murky and polluted to a foul state from billions of unwanted or lost hopes, thoughts, and dreams of the dead. On occasion, he'd kneel down by the edges of the river Lethe, watching the milky fluid gush by, and wonder if it would be better to simply jump in and immerse himself in blissful oblivion, to forget himself amongst an eternity of permanent memory loss. Would he be happy with that? Would he be able to bear forgetting everything, Bianca, the Casino, Camp Half-Blood, the other demigods, his father, even _himself_?

He'd come close to touching the water a few times, but instinctive fear drew him back every time, preventing him from that emptying of himself. It was always with a half-longing, half-relief that he'd get up and leave for the palace grounds again.

The River Acheron was also of interest to him; he'd sometimes contemplated, with a sort of morbid fascination, what it would be like to fish out the left behind dreams of souls who'd gone down the river to be processed. Would he even be able to take things out of the river? Would he, as a child of Hades, be affected by the lost items?

The idea was darkly tempting at times, when he'd gone on his walks. He could have tried removing something from the river, if he'd taken a branch as a ladle to scoop it out of the water. He could have touched something drenched in the waters of the underworld, something that had once belonged to someone living, something from the water no one was to touch...

He could have gotten a branch from the trees. There were trees in the underworld, trees broken and gnarled and twisted, with blackened wood and leaves of jagged metal, a morbid parody of the trees up above in the world of the living. He'd wondered at times why there were trees, which needed sunlight to grow, in a world with no sun. But it was possible that his father had made them, as a sort of memory of what he couldn't really have from above. The world worked differently, after all, if you were a god.

Nico walked across his room, his footsteps oddly silent on the marble floor. He wished he could hear his footsteps, at least then there would be some sort of noise that wasn't included in the cries of the underworld. But his feet made no sound here, he'd learned that. It was if he himself was a ghost, a being without a tangible imprint to prove his existence. The thought was rather frightening, so he didn't often dwell on it.

Curling up in a ball on his bed, the demigod absentmindedly picked at the dark fabric of his blanket. His nails, ragged from chewing, could not seem to pick any threads from the fabric. He frowned in annoyance. He couldn't seem to make any sort of mark, any change in his surroundings that proved he was even here.

The air seemed even colder now. Nico shivered again, pulling the blanket over himself and shutting his eyes, trying to will himself to fall asleep. At least if he was asleep, he could dream that he was someplace warm, someplace nice.

Perhaps when he woke up, he could keep his eyes shut and keep pretending.


	3. Chapter 2: I'm still here, right?

When he came to, Nico kept his eyes shut, trying to keep up the illusion of undisturbed dreams for a few extra precious moments. There was no need to get up, after all. He wasn't being asked for today, he wasn't needed to do something. There was no reason to get out of his nest of blanket and sheet and trudge beyond the isolation of his room, not when all he could expect was an awkward, stilted conversation at best, if he even could get that. No, if he went downstairs, he wouldn't even be able to expect a decent "Hello", he would be ignored in favor of Hades and Persephone arguing, or Demeter muttering complaints and telling her daughter that she should have been better off in a marriage to the god of business or manufacturing or agriculture. He would end up sitting at a table too big for only a demigod and several deities, and be ignored until Demeter turned to him and demanded that he eat more cereal. Then Persephone would go off on a tangent about her mother always advocating cereal, and then Hades would get more and more annoyed by the noise level, until he commanded that breakfast be eaten in silence, and then Demeter would turn to Persephone in grim satisfaction and tell her, with an air of triumph, that this was a prime example of why she shouldn't have eaten the pomogranate, and then the entirety of breakfast would end up ruined.

This happened at least several times a week during the time of year that Persephone would stay in the underworld, and each and every time, Nico found that it was better just to leave the room altogether and take his breakfast to eat somewhere else, usually in the Fields of Asphodel, where he could hide in the tall stalks of grain and eat without feeling left out. Sometimes a spirit or two who'd been sentenced to live out their afterlives in the Fields of Asphodel would come and stay with him for a while, keeping him company and talking about their lives before they'd died. Nico didn't usually talk when this happened, but he would listen to them; it was better conversation matter than back in the palace, after all, and he would take what he could get. It was actually rather amusing at times, as many of the spirits had already been in the Fields of Asphodel for many years, and thus had gotten more than enough time to embellish their life stories into massive, overinflated epics.

Today, he decided, would likely be one of those days of eating breakfast somewhere else. He could almost hear the arguing already... No, wait, he actually could hear it: Persephone was shouting something at his father, something too muffled to make out, but it was apparently rather undesirable, because a few seconds later, Nico found his bedroom shaking, the screams of the dead outside suddenly amplified to several times louder than their normal volume. There was a sudden high, piercing wail outside his room, grating on his sensitive eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. The Kindly Ones were voicing some annoyance, it seemed.

_Great, just great. Now the Kindly Ones are upset by all the noise, the old hags are probably going to be yelling like banshees for hours..._

He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head, pressing the fabric over his ears to help block out the noise. _Yep, definitely not a good time to get up._

After a while, he peered out from under his blanket, straining his ears to try to sense if the cacophony of noise had ceased yet. Thankfully, the noise level had gone down enough that he could bear it. He looked down from the relative warmth of his bed, to the cold stone floor below. Did he dare risk losing whatever meager warmth he'd gotten from cocooning himself in his blanket and sheet? Should he brave the frigid floor in order to go downstairs and get breakfast?

In the end, the loud rumble of his stomach answered the question for him. Half god or not, he still needed to eat. _Looks like downstairs for me. Another sad attempt at a "family meal" it is, then._

Shivering, he tried to force his body to respond to the thought of getting out of bed. _C'mon, di Angelo, there's food downstairs. Even if they don't like you, you still need to go down there and get something to eat, Bianca wouldn't want you to starve yourself. _

He wished he hadn't thought of her. The floor, if possible, seemed suddenly very far away, and the air outside of his stuffy cocoon seemed to drop a few degrees. But he had to get up, he had to eat, if only for Bianca. His sister had always looked out for him, made sure he was okay. She wouldn't want him to skip meals just for a bit of warmth. He could imagine her disapproving expression already, tapping one foot, with a look in her eyes that told him, quite clearly, that he _would_ eat something, and that was that.

_You always did know how to get me to do things..._

Shuddering, he pulled himself free of his makeshift nest, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He would get his food, and then he would go for a walk. It wasn't as if his presence would be missed at the table.

Stumbling across the floor, dazed from sleep and the cold air, he staggered over to the mirror to get ready for the day. He didn't care much for his appearance, but he'd learned from experience that Demeter would disapprove, with many, many scoldings, if he looked untidy. She was, after all, a mother, and mothers, he thought, would probably care about if others looked "presentable".

The reflection looking back at him from the mirror didn't look much like a boy, even one who'd been suspended in time in a magical casino for decades on end. No, he thought, the person looking back at him looked like a ghost, an echo of what once was. His body seemed smaller, somehow, than when he'd first arrived in the underworld some time ago, and he looked haggard, worn, with a slightly gaunt face. His skin, once a pleasant shade of olive, had become whiter than porcelain from weeks without sun. His cheekbones looked sunken, his eyes dark pools, lifeless. Hair his sister had once had to nag him daily to comb was now limp, greasy, dangling before his face in a choppy, uneven curtain of dark snarls and tangles. His hands, in contrast to the rest of his sluggish body, were twitching, tapping undefinable beats and tracing patterns across his thighs; the fingers were bone-thin, and stark white, blue veins tracing intricate tattoos of curls and jagged lines across his wrists and palms.

He couldn't remember what he looked like after Bianca had died; he'd tried to keep away from mirrors or other reflective surfaces since then, trying to keep from looking at his face, a face that looked so much like its twin that it hurt like a knife wound to even glimpse now.

He couldn't avoid his reflection now, not with a mirror hung in his room, the shiny surface mocking him with its perfect display of him, as if to say, _See? Look at yourself. You are here, and she is not. You are alive, and she is dead. You are the bad one. You are the one that lives on, while she is gone and left a hole in the fabric of the world. You are here, but she isn't, and that's why your father doesn't like you. He liked her better. What could you offer, you, a puny child with nothing more than ghosts for friends, who spent all his time with Mythomagic cards? What are you, compared to a huntress of Artemis, a girl who died with honor?_

He could never answer the silent, mocking questions. He had no answer, after all. He knew he wasn't as good as Bianca.

Sighing, he looked down at his clothes and thought about whether it was worth the effort of changing. He'd worn the same clothes a few days in a row before, to see if anyone would notice. No one said anything, except Demeter, who'd told him to stop being a slob. Should he get changed, then? She was the only person who ever really reacted towards his presence anymore, even if it was only to criticize and scold.

_Maybe I shouldn't. I'm not going to be in there for long, anyway. A few more hours of this and I'll go stir-crazy. _

When he got to the dining room, he saw they'd already started eating without him. Persephone was playing with the cutlery by her plate, the fork turning into a bouquet of tulips and back again. Hades hadn't even looked up, instead seeming to be solely focused on his food.

_I haven't even come in yet, and already I feel like an intruder._

Demeter, however, gave him a look of disapproval as he stood by the doorway. Silently, she pointed to a seat next to her. He nodded. At least this way, Hades would be at the head of the table, Persephone and Demeter sitting across from each other, and he wouldn't have to look at any of them, at least not directly. That could work; he wouldn't have to try, awkwardly, to fit in.

Taking his seat, he silently wished for his breakfast, a few slices of toast with peanut butter and chocolate. Bianca had shown him how to make these, when they were little. They'd eaten this for breakfast every weekend since they'd first tried it. She'd put on the peanut butter, he'd put on the chocolate, and then they'd both smash the toast together at the same time to make a sandwich. She'd cut the sandwich in half, and she always gave him the bigger half.

Now there was no one to put on the peanut butter, no one except himself. It didn't seem to taste as good, but it was better than nothing. When he cut it in two pieces now, he'd take the bigger half and sacrifice it in her name, hoping she might be able to taste it and remember.

Demeter gave him an odd look as the food appeared before him; Nico noticed her stare out of the corner of his eye, and wished she would look away. This was something that only he and Bianca did, and now it seemed tainted, the purity of the memory poisoned.

He grabbed his food and raced out of the room, not looking back. The Fields of Asphodel hid him instantly, as he stumbled as far in as he could. He'd always find his way back. The underworld was his prison, but it was also his playground. He knew it, he felt it, he sensed it _everywhere_.

Sitting down in the dirt, he began to eat. He wasn't missed back there, he wasn't being called back. He'd be fine eating out here.

It was better this way. If his only company was himself and the dead, so be it. Better than being unwanted, unseen, unheard. Better than suffering in silence at the sham of "family time".

Better than knowing he was not being missed. It _was _better...right?


	4. Chapter 3: Baking Lessons

When he was finished with his food, Nico laid down on his back, facing the dark ceiling of the underworld. This wasn't a very unusual past time for him; after a while, if he looked at it for long enough, he could feel his vision haze over, and the ceiling would shake and waver like a heat mirage in the desert, twisting and writhing like the pained throes of a dying beast. The people in the upperworld had the sky to look at, and pretend some clouds looked like this or that.

Nico had the underworld, and its bizarre form of the reverse of the heavens served to be the artistic canvas of a lunatic, a plaything with which he could amuse himself in a twisted game of "I spy".

Today, he decided, the ceiling looked like a mass of wriggling snakes, coiling and unfurling like plumes of smoke across an ink-colored beach of pointed stone. The ocean, perhaps, could be the huge, shallow dip up on the higher point of the ceiling, where the stalagmites grew smaller and more closely packed, appearing like spiny needles from a group of porcupines. But there was something missing...

Turning his head, he noticed one of the Kindly Ones approaching, leathery wings flapping and fluttering in an unseen wind. _Ah, there's one. Every beach needs an ugly old crone to mess it up, right?_

Mrs. Dodds hovered in the air a few feet away from his resting place, giving him a look of disdain, as if he was lower than dirt. Clearly, she wasn't happy about being used as a makeshift messenger service. "Back to the palace, brat. Demeter's angry that you were so rude at breakfast today, so you've been given dish duty as punishment; apparently brats these days have forgotten the worth of some good manual labor." Nico stared at her, annoyance bubbling up inside him. True, he'd left the table abruptly, and without excusing himself, but she'd been giving him that very weird stare, and staring was rude too!

But Mrs. Dodds still had a pair of nasty-looking talons, and a rather heavy-looking handbag to swing around (he knew this from experience), so he swallowed the retorts threatening to burst forth, and stalked off in the direction of the palace. _One day, I swear I'll set Cerberus on her. She'd make a better chew toy than those puny red rubber balls._

There was no sign of Demeter that he could find, but the smell of freshly baked grain bread wafted through the air, warm and enticing, as if welcoming him. He wondered vaguely if the smell would set Persephone off on another anti-cereal rant; it would certainly make things more interesting in this cold, dark place.

_Hmm, hard to believe she can make something smell so delicious, and yet the stuff used to make it is advertised so many times that it's too much trouble to eat. It's always "you're too skinny, you need more cereal!". If she didn't try to shove that stuff down my throat all the time, maybe I'd actually try and eat some. _

But food was food, and, despite being half god, he was still also half human, still mortal. Mortals needed mortal food, and since he didn't see her anywhere...

Well, perhaps trying the stuff wouldn't be _too _bad. He'd have to go in and wash the dishes in there anyway, or Demeter would nag at him until he gave in.

He walked into the palace's kitchen wing, obediently following the warm, homey scent. The kitchen wing was a large, rectangular room, much like a medieval great hall, lit with torches held in brackets on the walls, and also with numerous glass jars full of bluebell flames, hung on strings and hooks from the ceiling. The walls, much like many other parts of the palace, were made of a dark marble, and niches and hollows had been carved out here and there to house spice racks, cured meats and fish, baskets of bread and sacks of grains, containers of soups or stews, and the occasional stack of drawers containing cookware, cutlery, napkins, plates, tablecloths, and glasses. Everything was stored with a stasis charm for freshness. A series of long, rectangular tables and tanks, rather like metal autopsy tables, ran down the middle of the room, each table equipped with a large sink on one side, and a stove on the other. At each of these "stations" was a skeleton or two, clad in a chef's uniform with pockets full of sharp butcher knives. Numerous other skeleton workers were marching up and down the aisles, writing records of the food supplies on clipboards, pointing in different directions to direct pots and pans to be put in certain places, and organizing the cookware.

The smell was coming from the back of the room, where a large brick fireplace, iron pot-bellied stove, an ancient-looking oven, and a clay kiln had been put in a moderately spaced semicircle, a wood pile, coal pile, and sack of woodchips, flint and tinder put away in a corner for fuel. The fireplace was lit, smoke billowing up into the air and vanishing into the ceiling. Demeter, clad in a long beige dress with an apron in front, was standing before the fire, humming some centuries-old tune under her breath as she watched the bread baking on the rack in the lit fireplace with a stern eye.

Nico had hardly gotten more than a few feet inside the kitchen when Demeter called out, "Get in here, boy, I'll not have you waiting like a doddering fool by the door, you'll be of help today, whether you like it or not!" She snapped her fingers, and Nico felt a sudden strong tugging sensation around his ankles: a pair of twisting pumpkin vines appeared around his feet, and pulled hard. He suddenly felt as if he'd been pushed, as the vines suddenly yanked _hard_, and he was pulled across the room within an instant, landing in a tumbled heap at the harvest goddess's slipper-clad feet. "Get up!," she said sternly, reaching out a hand and grasping him firmly by the arm, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet.

Demeter pointed to the bread baking in front of them. "I want you to watch over these. Make sure they are baked golden brown, crisp, but not burnt. If you ruin them, you'll be in for the scolding of the century, and a whack on the hand with a wooden spoon besides. Are we clear?"

Nico was bewildered. He'd been told Demeter wanted him to wash dishes as punishment for his earlier behavior at breakfast, but this wasn't dishwashing. This was baking. "I...I don't understand. I thought you wanted me to wash dishes..."

She huffed at him, clearly annoyed. "I changed my mind, now _bake_, got it?" Mutely, he nodded. He knew, from all the times she'd hit his father with that same spoon during an argument, that getting hit by that cooking utensil really, really _stung_.

She handed him a long, flat-headed spatula to turn the bread over with for even heating, then turned away and walked off to the other side of the room. Nico stared after her for a moment, struck dumb by the task assigned to him. He'd never baked so much as a cupcake successfully in his entire life, and now she wanted him to watch all the bread baking. How was he supposed to do a good job at _that_? The only time he'd ever tried to bake before, at least without Bianca's help, he'd set the kitchen of the Lotus Hotel and Casino on fire.

But if she said he had to bake, then he had to bake. There was no other option, at least not with the threat of the spoon hanging over his head. Sighing quietly, he sat down cross-legged a few feet in front of the fireplace, resigning himself to baker's duty for the day.

_Well, at least it's warmer in here than outside. There's a real fire and everything. And the bread smells really good, too..._

Nico wasn't sure how long he sat there, but after a while, he began to feel pleasantly sleepy, the warmth of the fireplace soothing away the chill in his bones. The floor, though made of the same marble as the walls, was warmed up by the heat from the fire, and became somewhat comfortable to sit on. The steady stream of noise in the background lulled him, slowly, into the embrace of Morpheus. The last thought he had before falling asleep was that he couldn't remember if he'd taken out the bread or not...

When he awoke, he was curled up into an uncomfortably tight ball on the floor, rather like a human pretzel knot, and there was a fluffy quilt draped over his aching body. As he slowly came back to some semblance of coherency, he remembered two things: one, he'd failed to watch the bread properly, and two, he definitely did _not _remember having a quilt when he fell asleep...or a wicker basket full of warm, freshly baked bread loaves sitting by his head. Confused, he pulled himself, with some effort due to his aching muscles screaming in protest at having been on the hard floor, into a sitting position, and pulled the bread basket into his lap. He'd never felt so hungry before, at least that he could remember. The only thing registering in his mind now was _eat first, think later_, and his hungry stomach agreed wholeheartedly.

When he'd reached into the basket to tear off a hunk of bread, he felt his fingers close around a piece of paper as well, which, upon being brought up to eye level, read in thin, elegant, spidery script:

_You need to work on your baking skills. If I hadn't come and fetched the bread when it was done, you would've let it burn to a crisp. I cannot even begin to fathom how uneducated you are in the fine arts of the kitchen. In punishment, you're to come down to the kitchen every evening from now on, so I can teach you some proper skills. You are to eat every bite of this bread as well, and anything else I give you to eat from now on, seeing as I can count every rib on your pitifully scrawny body. And don't even think about trying to skip out on this; you're under my tutelage now, whether you like it or not. Don't be late, or it's a whack with the spoon for you along with double helpings of cereal._

_Demeter_

Nico sighed, before returning his attentions to the bread. The warm, crunchy loaf was soft, buttery, with a hint of apples and warm cinnamon. The quilt bunched up against him, creating a cocoon of warmth. Somehow, the idea of spending time down here, with company that actually wanted him around, even if only to teach, suddenly didn't seem quite so bad.


	5. Chapter 4: Soup, heart and soul food

The next evening, when he arrived at the kitchen wing for his new duties, Demeter did not have to summon him to her with magically-grown vegetable vines. He walked to the back of the kitchen on his own, for once feeling less apathetic than usual. He had a purpose today, after all. He was supposed to actually _do _something, for once, instead of being left to wander about in a haze of bleak silence.

He stubbornly refused to admit that he was the smallest, tiniest bit excited at the prospect of being wanted.

Remembering just in time that she appreciated good manners, Nico mumbled a soft, "Evening..." as he approached the harvest goddess. Demeter gave him a stern look, replying, "It's _good _evening, child. Do not forget your manners!" A freshly-baked roll of bread was shoved into his hands, stuffed full of hot melted cheese and cured meat. "Eat this, I won't work with such a skinny waif."

Sighing at the slight to his current appearance, Nico began nibbling on his bread roll. Demeter pointed to the pot-bellied stove, upon which a huge pot of soup was bubbling away, clouds of fragrant steam puffing out of the gap between the rim of the pot and the lid. "Tonight, I'm making vegetable soup with barley and quinoa. The main base of the soup is already cooking, so in the meantime, you are to wash and chop up these herbs into flakes, and then bring them to me, understand?"

He swallowed the last of his bread roll and nodded, trying valiantly to pay attention. Unfortunately, this was rather difficult to do, given the fact that it was somewhat late, the kitchen wing was quite pleasantly warm, and he felt rather tired. Perhaps when he was done helping with dinner, he could curl up in front of the fireplace again and take another nap...

But for now, there was work to be done. He was handed a bundle of green herbs, along with a sharp-looking knife and a dishtowel. Demeter snapped her fingers, and a glazed wooden bowl full of clear water, along with a small wooden cutting board, appeared on the floor. "Go wash those herbs in the water, then cut them up. If you spill any of the water, mop it up with the dishtowel. When you're done, bring them to me, and we might be able to make a decent soup before the night's over."

Nodding, he sat down cross-legged on the floor, putting the towel off to the side, and dropped the herbs into the water; from the scent coming off them, the leafy green sprigs were pieces of parsley and basil, freshly picked. He rolled them around in the water for a moment, pulling the stems apart to allow the water to soak the entire mass of herbs instead of only the outside. After a few minutes, Nico plucked the bundle from the bowl and shook it slightly to get rid of excess water, before dropping it onto the cutting board, picking up the knife, and cutting the herbs into small pieces, chopped fine into crumbly bits of green flakes. The dishtowel was liberally dragged across the floor to dry any wet patches.

When he was done, Nico took the cut up seasonings to Demeter, who gave the little pile of chopped up garnish a long look, before giving a slight nod and taking the cutting board and its little bounty from his hands. A second later, the chopped parsley and basil was floating in a small cloud in the air, along with a spoonful of salt and pepper; the cloud blended together, along with a twist of lemon juice, before dropping with a soft _plop! _into the soup pot. A wooden spoon flew forward at Demeter's command, dropping into the soup and stirring itself clockwise at a slow, steady pace.

Nico took a deep breath of the smells coming from the pot; it was a bit like the smell of food burned at Camp Half-Blood, but somehow _better_. It was spices, and melted butter, salt and pepper, dollops of heavy cream, and thick, savory chicken broth, and bits of shredded, tender chicken and roast beef, and roasted apple chunks, and potatoes, and leeks, and onions, and tomato chunks, and carrots, and string beans, and turnips, and beets, and cabbages and oh gods, it just smelled like, like...

_Home. _

The word popped up into his head before he'd even thought of it, unbidden, a strange, tantalizing word.

_It smelled like home. Or maybe that's just my stomach talking..._

Yes, that must be it. He was just hungry, that must be it. There was no way that the smell coming from that pot could be the smell of home. He didn't remember home, at least not before living with Bianca at the Lotus Hotel and Casino. He'd been told that his memories, as well as his sister's memories, had been wiped clean for their own protection. He'd always assumed that it had been permanent. He'd never been told otherwise.

Perhaps...perhaps having his memories wiped only applied to the memories themselves, not the feelings associated with them. Nico knew that other people could remember certain things by association, linking one thing to another, like a trigger mechanism. Bianca always forgot where she put her favorite shirt when they were little, but she'd remembered its color was a violent shade of purple. Whenever they'd seen something with a strong shade of purple, she'd remember her shirt, and that way she'd always eventually find it. It was like an echo of a memory; the memory itself was gone, but the imprint remained somewhere, buried deep down.

If that was so, then what was he "remembering"? Bianca never made any sort of food that caused a reaction like this, and nothing he'd eaten or smelled before had caused this either.

A thought emerged, lumbering forth from the depths of his mind, looming at the edges like some sort of mystery.

_Maybe, just maybe...this is what...what Mom smelled like._

Nico sincerely hoped so. The smell was fantastic, like a warm hug wrapping around him, telling him everything would be ok.

He stood there for a moment, trying to memorize it: the feeling, the scent, the almost-taste in the tip of his tongue, the _goodness _of it.

A moment later, he was startled out his trance by a bowlful of soup being held out to him, along with a spoon and a warm hunk of rye bread studded with chopped nuts. "Eat, child, before it gets cold."

He stared for a moment, still trying to memorize the scent, before nodding, taking the offered food and sitting down on the floor again. The fireplace flared to life in front of him, blazing cheerfully like a yuletide flame. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he felt the warmth sink into his bones. _Much better than eating in the dining room. Maybe I should eat more meals in here..._

As he was about to dig into his food, Nico was struck with a perplexing thought: who should he give part of his food to?

_Dad doesn't get many sacrifices nowadays, but he doesn't seem to notice when I give him part of my food as tribute. And I already make offerings to Bianca..._

Turning around, he looked behind him to regard the stern, proud woman standing by the stove, stirring the soup she was tending as if the food was a priceless treasure.

_Well, at least this way I don't have to get scolded for leftovers._

Turning back to face the fire again, he dunked his spoon into the soup and dug around, searching for the warmest, thickest part of the broth. He pulled it up to the surface in a big spoonful, and set the bowl in front of him, before hollowing out his bread hunk and crumbling the tender, fluffy inside into breadcrumbs that he dropped onto the spoonful of soup. Flicking his wrist, he flung the spoonful into the lit fire, watching the flames crackle and hiss as he mumbled an offering prayer under his breath.

_Thank you for the food, Demeter._

As the soup bubbled away in the fire, he tucked into his food, not noticing the ever so slight smile Demeter wore as she watched him eat, the soup stirring itself beside her.

_At least he's got enough manners to appreciate and share his food. At this rate, he won't stay all skin and bones. Perhaps this son of Hades isn't **quite** so bad after all..._


	6. Chapter 5: Nightmares and Warm Milk

Nico woke up drenched in a cold sweat, his nightclothes sticking to icy skin, the sheet and blanket twisted around his body like the clinging embrace of a straitjacket. He shuddered, tendrils of thought curling around his frightened, half-awake mind. Just _what _in Hades had he dreamt about?

Whatever it was, the horrors of the nightmare had apparently been too much for his mind to handle, since he couldn't recall anything other than a blinding, instinctive, icy fear. He pulled himself free of his twisted cocoon of blanket and sheet, curling up into the smallest ball that he could manage, trying to block out the horrific feeling.

There was, at least at first, only the sense that he'd experienced something terrifying, but he couldn't remember what. There was a dim recollection, after a few moments, of the sound of running water, rushing and flowing forwards, before a sudden falling sensation, then coldness drilling into him, all the way down to the bone, and then blackness closed around him like a vice, cutting off all feeling.

Had he dreamed...Had he dreamed of the river Lethe? Had he dreamed that he'd actually jumped _in_?

The feeling of fear surged forwards again, swallowing him up as if he'd been engulfed by a tidal wave. He suddenly felt small again, as if the nightmares of his childhood had come back to haunt him. But there was no one here to comfort him, no Bianca to chase away the bad dreams, or hold him, or run fingers through his hair and sing him to sleep.

This was the underworld. The monsters he'd once dreamed of being under his bed were all too real, and they weren't limited to only lurking in closets or sharing space with dust bunnies.

He would get no comfort from his father or stepmother, he knew that much. They would have no interest in quelling the nighttime fears of a boy just because of a bad dream, after all. There was no one aside from the ghosts and the skeletons left wandering the halls this time of night, except...

Demeter. The goddess might still be awake. He knew she would sometimes go to the kitchen at night and bake, unable to sleep well due to the constant noises of the underworld's inhabitants. If he went down to the kitchen, he would be somewhere warm, somewhere that he would have company. She'd been rather pleasant to him these last few days, perhaps his new luck would hold out and he could fall asleep by the fireplace again. He didn't have nightmares or strange dreams when he'd slept there, so it was safe there. The kitchen was safe. Demeter was safe. He just had to get there, and then he would be okay.

Nico all but threw himself out of bed at the thought, the fear lessening bit by bit as he headed off to the kitchen. _Demeter would be there_, he repeated to himself. _She **would.**_

He stumbled on through the dark halls, feet making no noise. He could barely even see his own hand in front of his face, for all the light there was. The torches that lined the halls were unlit, as the skeletons and ghosts needed no light to find their way around with. The air was cold, clammy, his breath emerging as little puffs of white puffs, like smoke clouds. No sound could be heard, save for the moaning and shouting of the dead outside. It was as if he'd gone done to the bottom of the world, where there was no light, no air, no noise, and no one else.

He hurried on even faster at the thought.

The kitchen wing, thankfully, was lit when he arrived. Nico had to force himself not to run in, the warmth and light was just so _inviting. _He headed to the back of the room, looking for a glimpse of the person he wanted to see. She was sitting by the fireplace in an old-looking rocking chair, likely conjured up to make herself more comfortable. In the fireplace, the flames were lit and crackling merrily, the light spilling out onto the floor and pooling on the ground like a great puddle of liquid gold. Floating in mid-air next to the rocking chair was a large ceramic mug full of some sort of steaming drink that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. A thick, scratchy-looking plaid blanket was draped over her lap, and on top of the blanket was a leather-bound book, cracked open to reveal some sort of gardening catalog.

He had barely even opened his mouth to speak, when she turned to him and made a beckoning gesture. Nico instantly headed towards the fireplace, making a quick bow to the harvest goddess before sitting down cross-legged in front of the flames. "I...I'm sorry to disturb you, but I couldn't sleep very well."

Demeter gave him a long, searching look, before nodding her head. "I see." She didn't ask what had kept him from sleeping, and for that Nico was grateful.

A snap of her fingers produced, out of thin air, a large mug of some sort of hot drink, which floated over to Nico. Surprised, but not ungrateful, the demigod gingerly took hold of the mug and peered inside, to see it filled to the brim with hot, steamed milk, the top frothy. Clouds of warm, inviting scents came forth from the milk, smelling of warm cinnamon, and melted brown sugar, and a bit of hazelnut. A small sip of the milk revealed hints of chocolate and honey, as warmth suddenly rushed over him, spreading out all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. The fear from earlier melted away, leaving him warm and sleepy. Nico gave a soft sigh of relief, before continuing to drink. _This stuff's great..._

When he had drained the mug dry of its contents, he had to resist the childish urge to turn the mug upside down and try to see of any leftover drops would splash out. Instead, he contented himself with holding the mug in his hands, feeling the warmth still held by the container seep into his numb fingers, as he tried to memorize the taste. Perhaps he could ask Demeter if she could tell him how to make this for himself someday...

"Keep it." Nico blinked in confusion, startled out his thoughts, and turned to stare at Demeter in surprise. Without looking up from her book, she spoke again. "I already told you, _keep _it. The mug is enchanted: whenever you want something warm to drink to help feel a bit better, the mug will fill up with whatever drink you want. Keep it by your bedside at night, if you have another nightmare, just take the mug in your hands and wish for your drink of choice."

Nico quashed the urge to ask why she'd known he'd had a nightmare in the first place; chances were, she'd read his mind. He found that, somehow, if only in this one case, he didn't mind as much as he should have.

He looked down at the mug in his hands, studying his newly acquired possession. The mug was of a good size, made of some kind of porcelain, with a shiny glaze over the surface that flickered and gleamed in the light from the fireplace. There was a wraparound design of fruits, vegetables, and grains, with a wheat field swaying in the background in the grip of an unseen summer breeze. The handle looked like that of a wicker basket, twisted with what looked to be wheat stalks, and the bottom of the mug appeared to be flattened and bumpy, as if held in the earth.

He looked up, giving a soft, somewhat hesitant smile. "Thank you." She nodded, but Nico understood the dismissive gesture. Knowing that talking would be over for the rest of the night, he turned back to his mug and made a wish. Instantly, the container filled up to the brim with the drink from earlier, heat radiating outwards, steam rising up and curling into swirls and twists in the air.

When the mug was drained again, he placed it a few feet away, before he curled into a ball in front of the fireplace, feeling his body relax, and closed his eyes. As he began to feel the first tugs of sleep, he felt something heavy and somewhat scratchy get draped over his thin frame. A few moments later, sleep overtook him.

Demeter sat back in her rocking-chair, watching the demigod get his first restful sleep all night. A snap of her fingers, and the blanket that she'd draped over him pressed closer, tucking itself around the skinny body, until only his head could be seen, dark hair spilling out across the floor like a puddle of ink. She frowned slightly, before making a slight waving motion with one hand; another blanket, smaller this time, appeared, bundling itself up into a folded rectangle and sliding underneath his head to make do for a pillow. Nico shifted slightly, giving a soft sigh, before curling up tighter, the blanket pulled up to his chin.

The goddess nodded in satisfaction. _There, no more nightmares tonight. _


	7. Chapter 6: Sound of Madness

Nico was running.

Not walking, not marching, _running. _Running as if he was being chased by hungry monsters, running as if he was outracing a white-hot forest fire, running as if his life depended on his escape.

His life didn't depend on it, but his emotions did. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but it had left him reeling from the force of the emotional blow.

When he finally stopped, he threw himself down onto the hard, unforgiving ground of the riverbank, the built up pressure of his emotions bleeding out of his drained form as he turned half-lidded eyes to the milky water rushing by. He'd never so much as touched the water before...

_I wonder what that water feels like...?_

It had started out like any other morning in the underworld, a rather uneasy time for eating, and in the case of most of his company, arguing. He'd taken his mug with him, choosing to drink silently instead of trying to "fit in". Demeter had given him a glance when he'd gotten to the table; he'd take the look for as good a "good morning greeting" as he could expect, and said a soft reply when he took a seat next to her at the table.

Things had spiraled out of control from there. Arguments between Hades and Persephone were as common as sand in a desert, but in this case, it appeared that the conflict had become worse than usual. Nico hadn't even been sure what they were arguing about; everything had been shouted in Ancient Greek, and he'd been too occupied with trying to blend in with the background to bother trying to translate the screams. The room had shook like an earthquake was in session, the walls vibrated with the sheer volume of noise, the torches flickered like candles in the wind, casting the room in light and then darkness repeatedly. There had been some sort of accusation from Persephone, hissed with words as sharp, as bright, as cutting as blades of ice. Her pointer finger had suddenly pointed at him, her eyes blazing with some sort of angry triumph, and then she'd said something, something he couldn't quite make out, apart from one word: _spare. _

Hades had muttered something in reply, his face closed off and expressionless, as if carved from marble. Nico knew it had been some sort of denial, but the words seemed flat, somehow, half-hearted, dull.

The nagging, snide little voice he'd recalled from his sojourns before the mirror in his room returned, taunting, in a repeated echo: _See? You **are **the bad one..._

The feeling of numbness he'd felt through most of the conversation vanished, replaced by a rapidly spreading coldness, as if his blood had been replaced by ice water, his veins freezing over, his body becoming heavy, leaden, as if he was becoming a statue.

He hadn't bothered listening to anymore, the damage had already been done. He was on his feet and out of the room within seconds, mug just barely dangling from one hand. The silent footfalls might as well have been made by a ghost, as he tore off down the hallway and out of sight. Demeter gazed after the departing demigod, until he'd gotten far enough that she couldn't see him anymore, before turning back to her breakfast. The food vanished. Then she turned to her daughter, then to Hades, pinning them both with an unreadable expression, before walking out of the room in a cold, haughty silence.

The snap of her fingers as she left echoed in the suddenly quiet room, and all the food on the table vanished, along with the place settings. An inch of dust settled over the table, as well as on the seats, which drew themselves up to their places and refused to budge afterwards. Persephone and Hades stared after the harvest goddess, for once silent.

When Demeter left the palace, she stretched out the scope of her powers, intent on locating Nico. Even if the underworld was a place of death, it still had more than enough dirt to put down some roots in. She reached out and began searching, the sentient roots twisting and growing at a rapid pace, until a single pulse back alerted her to her wayward target. She cursed inwardly as she realized the location.

A swirl of magic later, and the harvest goddess rematerialized at the bank of the river Lethe. The mug was sitting on a large root, one of many which had grown up out of the ground from the twisted, gnarled tree overlooking the river. Nico was lying on his side on the riverbank, trailing his fingers carelessly through the milky water, eyes alight with a strange, detached interest. He didn't look up as she approached, but he answered her anyway. "Hello, Demeter."

She stared, not quite sure what to believe, or what to do. _What do you tell a child who's just been told, essentially, that he's inadequate, in all meanings of the word? _

Instead, she found her voice and asked, "What do you think you're doing?".

Nico gave her a strange look: a leering grin, so very unlike that soft, hesitant smile she'd been given the night before. The grin was cold, detached, lifeless, robotic even. The grin looked so perfect it seemed almost mechanical, except that it was crooked, just the slightest bit. The light in his eyes was broken too: a bizarre, detached light that seemed to burn with a spark of fragile, shaking feeling that Demeter knew, but was unwilling to name.

She knew that feeling, she'd seen it in demigods before, the ones who'd been left on their own for so long that they couldn't comprehend their own reality anymore. Nico was like that now, she could see it. Or rather, he was about to be. The events following up to this point had put him on a precipice, leaving him teetering dangerously to either side, ready to plunge off the abyss without so much as a single warning.

It was insanity. Insanity was gazing back at her, a tiny little spark now, but she knew that if she wasn't careful, that spark would become a raging bonfire.

Nico di Angelo would be razed to the ground by his own broken image of self-worth, and it was all she could do to prevent it. The cracks were already formed, they'd merely been widened by the words from this morning, and from the mornings, the days, the nights, the time in the underworld before today. It was if Nico was a porcelain mask with hairline cracks caused by his rough experiences. The cracks were almost impossible to see unless one knew where to look, but once they started, they spread, they widened, and eventually, unless they were smoothed over and fixed, the mask itself would shatter.

A mask like that would be impossible to put back together again, not if it was to be the same as it was before.

Slowly, tentatively, she walked to him, kneeling down beside him, and said quietly, "You know, if you're not careful, your face will freeze like that."

Nico was silent, unmoving, for a moment, and then suddenly he shoved his arm into the river water, the thin appendage stark white, the fingers fanning out and wiggling, like the ghostly branch of a long dead tree. Demeter forced herself not to jump up in shock; she'd never seen anyone, mortal or otherwise, willingly touch the water, much less immerse parts of their bodies in it.

He spoke up then, voice hoarse, as if he'd been shouting. "You know, this isn't the first time I've come down here, but it's the first time I've come this close to actually dunking myself. I used to wonder what would happen if I jumped in, hehe...". Demeter stared at him, speechless.

He pulled his arm back out of the water, waving it around. The fingers were so thin they looked almost bone at first glance, the skin whiter than snow. Water dripped down, slowly, drop by drop, milky droplets falling from his fingers like translucent pearls. He held his hand out to Demeter, still grinning that awful grin.

"Go on, touch it. It won't hurt you, it didn't hurt me."

Demeter wasn't quite so sure about that, but didn't question it, instead gazing, with a sort of morbid curiosity, at the glistening, wet fingers. _He **is **one of Hades' children, perhaps the water doesn't affect him like it does others..._

Nico stared at her for a moment, gazing with a sort of dark amusement, before he threw back his head and laughed. Laughed like a man does when he knows he wants the unattainable. The noise was dark, morbid, an echo of what-if, the laugh of someone broken. Then the laugh turned shaky, broken, stilted, as the laugh turned less frequent, then to hiccups, and then finally to sobs. Aching, heaving sobs that left him trembling, eyes still staring at Demeter, the madness still there, but pain too. Pain of childhood, and of an adulthood that came too soon. Pain of loss, of hopelessness, and of no knowledge of how to recover.

The harvest goddess gathered the demigod into her arms and rocked him back and forth, her embrace tight but reassuring in its strength. They stayed like that by the river, his body shaking as he slowly became silent. She remained wordless, humming a soft, long-forgotten tune as she trailed ancient fingers through his dark hair. Nico shivered, but the madness was silent now.

She would fix him. That was a promise.


	8. Chapter 7: Safe and Sound

When he woke up, the first thing that registered was pain, a lot of pain. The kind that starts out as a tingling, pin-and-needles feeling all over, then spreads out in a blistering, frenzied inferno.

His entire body was heavy, leaden weight, and every muscle ached. The arm he'd plunged into the river Lethe, in a bizarre contrast to the rest of his body, felt fine, albeit cold. Breathing, he discovered, hurt as well, every breathe drawn in feeling like a struggle for even that measly gulp of air, as if he was trying to breathe while underwater. He kept his eyes shut, unwilling to look around. It was too much to even consider expending the effort of proper movement when practically everything _hurt_.

He'd never felt his head hurt so much either; at first he couldn't recall anything, his head feeling as if it had been stuffed full of cotton, and pounding like an agonizingly repetitive drumbeat. Then the events of earlier rushed back all in a tangled, confusing jumble of dark images and explosive emotions, and he felt himself shiver from the force, curling into a ball and trying to block out the sudden onslaught of thoughts threatening to plunge his mind off the edge into madness.

_That's it. I'm never going to stick any part of my body anywhere near that water ever again. _

Nico turned, slowly, onto his side, his body still tightly wedged together in an instinctive effort to protect himself. But from what, he wondered, was he trying to protect himself from?

The memories burned into his mind's eye, twisting and tripping over each other in a mad rush to get to his shredded emotional filter first. The argument between his father and stepmother, the look of accusation, of angry triumph in Persephone's gaze, the finger pointed at him, like he was some sort of criminal, and that word. That horrible, horrible word.

_Spare._

He suddenly felt the ice from yesterday reemerge, creeping up his spine and twisting around his battered form like razor wire. His body seized up, his fingers twitched, scrabbling for purchase across the sheets-

_Wait, sheets?_

He hadn't been on any sheets when he blacked out. So where was he?

Cautiously, the demigod opened up one eye, peering out from behind the thick, tangled curtain of hair obscuring his vision.

He was in a room. _But this doesn't look anything like my room._

Indeed it didn't. The room was rectangular, the walls a creamy yellow-white stone, likely marble. There was little furniture in the room, but somehow this seemed to be out of neatness rather than neglecting any actual furnishing. He found himself lying in a small bed with a wooden frame, his feet reaching the footboard, with a large, colorful quilt, a soft pillow, and crisp white sheets. On the walls, there were several large, sweet-smelling wreaths made of dried flowers, interwoven with grain stalks and dried grasses, hung by wooden pegs. There were scattered bits of fresh, bright grass and hay on the floor, along with a few dried flower petals. A wicker basket stood at the foot of his bed, overflowing with the thick, scratchy blanket he'd slept under in the kitchen.

A long, lightly-colored wooden bench stood against one wall, cluttered with a rainbow of glass bottles and unlit candles sitting in neat little clusters by color and size, rather like clumps of spring wildflowers. Judging by the smoke drifting up into the air from some of them, he knew they'd been put out recently. By the bed, there was a little wooden side-table, the top circular, upon which sat his mug, and a large, clear glass bowl full of sweet-smelling water, a fully bloomed red poppy floating serenely upon the glassy surface of the clear liquid.

Poppies. Why did that flower seem so familiar...?

_Demeter. _

So she'd brought him here. But just where _was _here, exactly?

He looked around again, but there was nothing to give a hint of the outside world. But unlike his room back at the palace, this place didn't seem to be as unfeeling and impersonal. This room was nicer, more cheerful, more...homey.

He settled back against his pillow, suddenly feeling very tired. She'd seen him break down and cry like a child, upset and confused and angry, more conflicted than he'd ever felt. When he'd looked into her eyes, desperate for someone to understand, he'd seen no judgment in that ancient gaze, only kindness, and empathy. She'd held him as he fell apart before her, sobbing and whimpering as if it was the end of the world. She hadn't said anything, merely hummed that nice tune and trailed fingers through his hair until he'd blacked out.

_Bianca used to do that. _

But Bianca wasn't here anymore, and, judging by the lack of any other tangible presence in the room, neither was Demeter.

Or was she?

Nico groped blindly for the mug by his bed, pulling the drink container up to his lips and hoping wildly that his wish would work.

A split second later, Nico felt something in the room shift, as if something was being added, before the scent of fresh bread filled the air. He looked up, hardly daring to believe it. He'd thought the mug only worked for wishes for drinks. It seemed that he was wrong, and the thought was exhilarating.

Demeter had been giving the newest batch of bread loaves a dusting of flour when she felt the presence in the other room shift. Instantly, she understood, and responded. It seemed that her charge was awake.

When she arrived, she had only a moment to compose herself before she suddenly found herself with a lapful of shaking demigod, thin fingers clutching so tight to the folds of her dress that she wondered, for a brief second, if the fabric would tear.

_Well, it seems that he's up and about, if he can rush at me like that. But he's shaking like a leaf, what happened? There isn't anything in this room that could possibly frighten him..._

The voice was so soft, so timid, that for a moment, Demeter almost missed it. "It worked, it really, really _worked_..."

She looked at him in surprise. "What worked?"

Nico shook his head and curled up into a ball, refusing to look up, as if afraid she'd vanish if he did.

_Well, I won't have any of that. _

She slid a few fingers under his chin, tilting his head upwards to see his expression. Nico's eyes were wide, red-rimmed from the crying by the riverbank, and full of surprise, and an almost alarming relief. Carefully, he spoke up, eyes never leaving hers as he replied quietly, "That I wished for you to come here..."

"And...?", the goddess prompted gently. Nico turned his head away slightly, his posture showing embarrassment at being so revealing. Pale fingers nervously twisted the fabric of Demeter's dress, as Nico replied, in a voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear, "Because I was lonely. And I wanted you here...you're, you're..."

The edges of Demeter's mouth twitched upwards in a hint of an amused smile. "I'm what?"

Nico stared at her for a long moment, clearly conflicted, before finally replying, "_Nice._"

Demeter gazed back for a moment, her eyes conveying a gentle warmth. "It appears," she said briskly, "that you aren't so bad yourself."

He was silent for a moment, before giving her a smile. Not the terrible, broken grin from the riverbank, but the smile she'd seen in the kitchen.

_I'll have to make sure that he does this more often._

After a moment, she regained her composure, and looked over the demigod in her lap with a critical eye. She had brought Nico here, pale, limp, motionless in her arms one moment, the next trembling madly, then thrashing about as if in terrible pain. His body temperature had experienced rapid changes from hot to cold, leaving him freezing one moment, trembling under a mound of blankets, the next, boiling away, forcing Demeter to strip him down to a thin nightshirt and underwear to keep him from getting worse. He'd muttered things in his sleep, too, strange things, terrible, wondrous things, long strings of nonsense coupled with disjointed bits and pieces of conversations from remembered conversations of long ago, and whispers, cries, begging and shouting and accusing all at once, as he babbled out his thoughts, his fears, and his secrets in the grip of a maddening fever.

She'd put cool clothes on his forehead, changing his clothes with magic with each temperature spike or drop, holding him up, half-awake, to get him to drink the healing water she'd put in a bowl by the bed. She'd held him as he thrashed around in the grip of feverish nightmares, as he whimpered and cried, rocking him back and forth in her arms, until he stopped struggling and went limp from exhaustion. Warm, nourishing soup had been poured down his throat when she'd found he couldn't keep solid food down, fingers trailed through his hair to keep him calm, lullabies hummed to lull him to sleep.

Demeter started slightly at the feeling of the body in her lap relaxing, but calmed down when she realized that Nico had fallen asleep. _Good, he needs it._

She'd lost track of how much time had gone by since she'd brought Nico to safety, and hadn't wondered if Hades would miss the boy. Quite frankly, she didn't care if he _did_ miss Nico, because she certainly wasn't going to give him back. The boy had next to nothing waiting for him back there in the palace, in that dark, cold, dead world, and she wasn't going to let him get worked up into another breakdown. He'd grown on her, she had to admit, and if nothing else, she would take care of him. She knew no one else would.

Nico may not be hers by blood, but he was her student, she'd taken on that responsibility when she'd made the decision to teach him how to cook. He was hers, and she took care of her own. She'd made a promise, after all.


	9. Chapter 8: Helping out with Dinner

When he opened his eyes again, Nico found himself back in his bed, the quilt tucked securely under his chin. The bowl of healing water by the bed was now sharing space with a bowl of soup, still wafting clouds of steam, and emitting a delicious scent of roasted vegetables and beef. His mug was full of something quite tasty as well, judging by the scent of chocolate and almonds drifting through the air. He reached out a hand from under his quilt, fingers slowly closing around the handle of the mug.

Pulling his new prize back to the bed, he raised the mug to his lips and began gulping the drink down, warmth flooding his body, restoring feeling to his numb fingers and toes. The drink in the mug, he reflected, tasted rather like hot chocolate, only this wasn't the watery store-bought packaged kind. No, this chocolate tasted like it was made out of nectar, warm, filling, with a rich, silky taste, with a hint of almonds and some sort of spice.

_Cinnamon, maybe? _

Oh well, it didn't really matter. He drank it all anyways. There was no one, at least at the moment, to see the childish action afterwards of Nico's crestfallen expression as the mug was drained, and he tipped it over upside down, peering in with a saddened expression at the empty container, before a look of sheepish realization dawned on his face and he made a wish for the mug to refill itself. After devouring his bowl of soup as well, he curled up back under the blankets, deciding that it was far too comfortable to get up just yet.

It seemed that he had hardly even closed his eyes when he awoke next, to the feeling of someone shaking his shoulder, firmly but gently, to get his attention. The smell of warm cinnamon and baked apple pie invaded his senses, and Nico knew immediately who was trying to wake him. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Demeter, a flour-dusted apron over her dress, holding out an earthenware bowl of hot barley soup and a wooden spoon. His mug was pressed into his hands, filled to the brim with more hot chocolate, this time with a touch of peppermint and vanilla, as well as a generous dose of fresh, homemade whipped cream.

He'd barely finished his dinner, when he felt Demeter taking the bowl and spoon out of his hands, and pulling the quilt up to his chin. He felt sleepy, warm, and rather content, all things considered. _I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a mom take care of you when you're sick._

It didn't seem unlikely. He decided to savor it, though, just in case.

This pattern continued for some time, days and nights passing seemingly without end. Nico was never quite sure how long he'd been here, as there wasn't anything he could try measuring time with, save for the faint _tick-tock_ of an old grandfather clock somewhere outside his room. He stayed in bed for the most part, only getting up to stretch his legs a bit, or to use the restroom (Demeter had pointed to a door set in one of the walls in his room, and although he wasn't quite so sure if it had been there before or not, the use of the new facilities was very much appreciated. He _really _didn't want to think of how he'd stayed clean, or used the restroom, while he was unconscious).

There was little to do while his body recovered from its previous ordeals, but he couldn't help but feel somewhat restless at times. There was only so much time that a demigod could stay put, after all, before becoming antsy. Perhaps Demeter remembered this, because Nico would find books in the basket at the end of his bed, full of interesting stories and anecdotes from the mortal world, as well as of times past on Mount Olympus. When he finished them, more would appear the next day, until it became second nature to reach for the basket's newest batch of literature. Soap operas, past news, old theatrical plays, mystery novels, thrillers, even old romance novels, dog-eared and bursting with commentary in the margins from previous owners. It was as if the basket contained a library, and Nico certainly wasn't ungrateful enough to complain about his new source of entertainment.

Other times, Demeter would often come in and sit with him, telling him stories of bygone days in the ancient world, recounting tales of heroes and epic voyages and vast, uncharted worlds. He'd often try to stay up for as long as he could in those times, his curiosity rising with each bizarre tale. When he couldn't even stay awake without feeling his eyes close every other moment or so, he would feel now-familiar fingers running through his hair, an old tune hummed in the peaceful quiet, and he'd fall asleep within seconds.

When he was finally deemed fit enough to be considered fully recovered, Demeter took Nico outside of his room for the first time, whisking them away in a burst of magic. When he opened his eyes, Nico stood, dumbstruck, as he gazed in surprise at the sight before him.

There was a small stone house, the outside walls painted a nice, cheerful shade of light yellow-cream, the roof made of glazed clay tiles in a warm, earthy shade of brown. Windows, with wooden frames, little planter boxes of wildflowers, and stained-glass panes, were set into the walls, allowing Nico to peer inside. A squat red-brick chimney, connected to a fireplace, was set into one wall, puffing out smoke like a sleeping dragon. A small, circular door, rather like the top of a wine-barrel, led the way into the house, with a round knob of polished brass, and carved ivy vines creeping across the door's woodwork surface. A small wraparound porch with a wicker rocking chair and polished, smoothed wood stump gave off the impression of inviting guests to step up and get comfortable.

But the house itself wasn't quite so unusual as its surroundings: a huge, open field of fresh, tall, golden-brown wheat, shimmering and billowing like a honey-colored sea of grain. There was a ring of blooming wildflowers, scattered here and there with wild mushrooms and tall, uncut green grass, circling the house in a rainbow of color. A small orchard stood behind the house, the trees tall and knotted, the branches laden with fresh, ripe peaches, pears, apples, oranges. Several berry bushes were bunched up near the trees, bulging with mulberries, strawberries, and blackberries. In front of the house was a large, rectangular garden full of vegetables, the moist, brown earth stuffed full of carrots, cabbages, cucumbers, onions, squash, beets, and even a few zucchini and potatoes.

Nico turned to Demeter, eyes wide, as he struggled for several moments to find his voice. "H...how did you _do _all this? I don't think that my father's realm would've allowed you to do this, so how did you do it? I thought things like this...I thought something like this couldn't grow in the underworld. There's not even any sun to help the plants grow..."

The goddess looked at him for a moment, a hint of indulgent amusement in her gaze, as she replied, with a hint of satisfaction, "Do not forget, child, that I am still a goddess. Even if it isn't my own realm to change, that doesn't mean that I can't make a few alterations for my own comfort. After all, my daughter stays in the underworld for some time every year, so when the arrangement was made for her time spent in your father's realm, I decided I would need a place to stay, so that I might be able to, ah...keep an eye on her and her _husband_."

Nico was unfazed by the dislike that suffused that last word, although the idea of Demeter's protective maternal nature spurring her to, in effect, make a "vacation home" in the underworld so as to watch his father like a hawk to ensure that "no funny business" happened was actually quite amusing. He laughed a bit, picturing the all too likely scenario, rather like a Shakespearean drama being exaggerated for the amusement of the audience.

Demeter took him by the hand and walked them over to the vegetable garden, pointing to a woven reed basket by the carrots. "I can tell that you need something to do now that you're back on your feet, so today, you're going to help me out in the garden. We're going to have vegetable soup tonight, and the food will be made faster if I have some extra help. When you're done, come inside with the basket and wash the vegetables, and I'll get you some warm milk to go with the apple pie I baked this morning."

Nico stood for a moment, letting the words sink in. Warmth spread throughout his body, warming him from head to toe. He was being told to help out with dinner, as if this was an everyday occurrence, for the first time since he'd lived with Bianca. He was helping out with a family meal. The thought felt good, very good.

He took the basket in his hands, kneeling down in the dirt as his fingers dug into the crumbly ground, warmed by some secret magic. It was strange, he thought, that his hands were not quite as pale as before, looking almost like a slightly milky tan, instead of the stark white shade of before. Strange, he decided, but not unpleasant. He looked almost normal again, even if only a bit. The thought was surprisingly comforting.

_Well, looks like I'd better get started then, if I want to get there before the pie gets cold. Now, how many vegetables does it take to fill up this basket...? _


	10. Chapter 9: An Accident, and Bedtime

The pie was warm, but not hot, the whipped cream on top melting into a puddle of white goo. The apples were baked to perfection, not too mushy, but bursting with flavor, tinged with spice, and the crust was flaky, crumbling into bits as he stabbed it with a fork. The milk, warm, creamy, and slightly sweet, washed everything down.

It was evening in the tiny kitchen, warm and quiet, the walls the yellow of freshly picked buttercups, with a window framed with checkered curtains. The basket of vegetables, washed and rubbed vigorously into crisp, clean perfection, were chopped up and simmering away in the large, round pot hung over the lit fireplace. Underneath the pot's lid, bubbling sounds, as well as the occasional hiss of steam, could be heard. The light in the room came from the fireplace, as well as a few lit candles on the little wooden dining table.

Nico was sitting on a cushioned footstool by the fireplace, a half-eaten slice of freshly-baked apple pie on a porcelain plate sitting on his knees. An almost-empty glass of warm milk was near his foot. The crackle and hiss of the flames was mesmerizing, the heat just warm enough to keep a person toasty warm, but not hot enough to feel uncomfortable with.

Demeter pulled off the lid of the pot, stirring the soup along in circles using a long wooden spoon. Nico watched quietly, feeling warm and rather sleepy. After a moment, she lifted the spoon up to taste, making a slight frown at the flavor, before snapping her fingers. A dish with a pat of half-melted butter, a few spoonfuls of chopped garlic, and a pinch of salt and pepper appeared, and the dish promptly turned itself upside down, dropping its load into the pot.

A few stirs of the soup later, and a sigh of satisfaction was audible. Nico, as he finished off his pie, felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards in amusement. _It has to be perfect, after all. I don't think she'd serve anything less than that, it'd be beneath her. _

This theory was proven moments later, when he found a bowl filled to the brim with soup, as well as a hunk of buttered wheat bread, placed in his hands, the now empty pie plate floating away to wash itself in the soapy water of the sink. He took out the soft part of the bread, dunked it in the soup, and dropped it in the fire, muttering a quick prayer of thanks. Then he dug in, the bowl emptying itself within record time. Demeter gave a slight smile of amusement at the enthusiastic consumption, before settling down in a rocking chair and eating her own bowl at a sedate pace.

Nico hummed softly in contentment, looking over the scene. Here he was, being able to eat a meal with someone who cared, in a place that had already begun to feel like home. He knew that Demeter, being a goddess, didn't need to eat mortal food like he did, but the thought that she'd done so anyway to make him feel more at home was very comforting.

When dinner was finished, Nico got up and took his plate to the sink, dunking it in the water as he looked around for a scrubbing pad or a sponge. Demeter, who was still in her chair, noticed his absence and turned around, to see him at the sink, looking a bit confused at the lack of cleaning equipment. "Nico, what are you doing?"

The demigod turned to her, feeling slightly embarrassed. _Can't even find a stupid sponge without help. I just wanted to help clean up to say thanks, and I can't even find the sponge..._

"Erm, I was going to wash the dishes, but I can't seem to find the sponge, or the soap...".

Demeter gave him a look of surprise, before smiling gently. "Well, isn't that nice. I didn't expect that you'd offer to help clean up, but thank you. If you want to clean, the soap and the sponge are under the sink. Make sure not to use too much soap, or you'll make too many bubbles and the sink will fill up."

He nodded, before pulling the cabinet under the sink open, to find a large yellow sponge and a closed jar full of pink powdered soap, with a large spoon in the jar to measure out the soap. He took a spoonful, mixing it in the water, before taking the sponge and scrubbing away at the dishes. To his annoyance, there didn't seem to be enough soap in the water, as the dishes were hardly affected by the scrubbing.

Nico glanced back at Demeter; the goddess had pulled out a sewing hoop, and was stitching something onto a large piece of dark green fabric.

_Hmm, maybe just a little more wouldn't hurt..._

He dropped another spoonful into the soapy water, stirring round and round with the spoon. The sink immediately began frothing and bubbling wildly, pink bubbles pouring out like a flood, over the sink, down the cabinet, and onto the floor, soaking his sock-covered feet and the bottoms of his pants. "Uh oh, not good, not good, not good...!"

Demeter turned around at hearing the panicked cries, to see the mess that had blossomed all over her clean kitchen. Nico crouched by the sink, several paper towels from the counter soaked with the water he'd been mopping up. He was wincing slightly, cradling one hand to his chest; the sink had overflowed to the point where the rising water had expelled the pie plate, causing it to fall onto the floor and shatter. Nico, judging from the large, jagged cut across his palm and several fingers, had tried to pick up the broken pieces without her noticing.

_Silly child._

A snap of her fingers, and the mess vanished, leaving only the water-filled sink. Nico stared guiltily at the floor, refusing to meet her gaze. She crossed the room, kneeling down beside him. "Show me your hand."

He shook his head, trembling slightly. Demeter frowned for a moment, before pulling the injured hand into her lap herself, examining the cut. It was large, but thankfully shallow, meaning just bleeding as a natural reaction to the opened skin, instead of an internal injury. She held his hand between both of hers, marveling inwardly at the difference in size. It was if she was holding the hand of a little boy, not a preteen.

She cradled the injured hand for a moment, before gently pressing her hands together, folding them over the cuts, and let loose a small stream of healing magic. Nico let out a soft gasp.

A moment later, and she pulled her hands away, revealing the hand that now looked completely healed. She tipped Nico's chin upwards with her fingers, looking into his eyes as she said sternly, "If you need help, _tell _me, got it?"

He nodded. Her gaze softened slightly. "Come on," she said quietly, patting him on the shoulder, "Time for bed. I'll tuck you in."

Nico looked through the kitchen window; there was no real way to tell time here, so for all he knew, it could be morning, not night. He wasn't five, either. There was no need for him to be "tucked in".

_But she'll do it anyway. She means it. And it's not as if there's other people to notice this, anyway._

Bianca used to tuck him in when they were little, claiming that as the big sister, she needed to make sure Nico went to bed first. But she was gone, and he'd not had anyone to care about his sleeping habits afterwards. He'd spent his nights alone, wondering if he'd make it to the next day.

But there was someone else offering now.

Nico took the hand offered to him, and nodded. "Ok."


	11. Chapter 10: Bathtime

Steam rose up around the room, fogging the little round windows and blanketing the water's surface in white mist. The towels, folded neatly in a tall wicker hamper a few feet away, were large and fluffy, in a variety of pastel colors. The floor, a pale grey-green stone of some sort, was worn smooth, the cracks filled in with river mud. On one of the walls, a series of hooks held a brush, a comb, and several small lanterns containing candles and incense sticks in little bottles. A sink, made up of a large, shallow, round wood bowl held to a tree trunk-shaped pedestal, had a faucet like an old brass pipe, with two little spouts on either side with a candle flame painted on one side, and a snowflake on the other, to show temperature. The medicine cabinet was set into the wall as a series of shelves carved out of the pale green stone, with a thin wooden screen held in front as a door by using two slots on the top and bottom of the shelves to hold it in place, and held clusters of little glass jars and bottles full of a rainbow of liquids and oils. A corner of the room had been separated using a tall wooden screen, and held the actual restroom. Candles floated at the ceiling, bathing the room in a warm, deep golden glow.

But it wasn't this that was awkward. In fact, the rest of the bathroom was quite nice.

It was what was before Nico that was awkward: a generously-sized, deep bathtub made of porcelain and wood, set by the window, with a smooth block of dark wood next to it as a sort of table, with a basket full of soaps and several bottles full of conditioner, shampoo, and sweet-smelling bath salts. A small rack hung off the side of the bathtub, holding an apple-sized bar of creamy yellow soap that smelled of lemons, and a large brush for scrubbing.

Demeter stood by the bathtub, adding a few spoonfuls of herb-scented bath salts into the steaming water. Nico wasn't nearly as comfortable with the situation.

_She told me she was going to tuck me in. She didn't mention that being tucked in included a bath to go with it!_

He stared, awkward and somewhat shy, at the doorway of the bathroom, trying very hard not to look at the bath being prepared, and wondering what his life had come to. Only a few weeks ago, he'd been living in the dreary opulence of the palace of Hades, being all but ignored entirely. Now he was living in a little house that seemed like a bit of paradise, living like part of a family for the first time in over a year, and the goddess of cereal was running him a bath before tucking him in.

_Yep, I've lost it. Definitely lost it. There is no way whatsoever that what I'm seeing is real. I probably just had too much soup before bed, and this is just a dream caused by indigestion. Yes, that must be it. _

He tried very hard not to notice the smell of lavender coming from the steam, or the fact that the tub was now three-quarters of the way full. He wasn't getting in that. He _couldn't _get in that, it was too hard for his dignity to take. He could take a bath by himself, for goodness sakes! He wasn't young enough that he needed help with something like this!

Demeter turned to him, and Nico felt his stomach drop. _Oh man, why does this have to happen to me? _

The goddess gave him a concerned look. "Nico, you're paler than the ghosts you talk to, and your expression tells me you feel nervous. Are you feeling awkward about taking a bath?"

Nico nodded slightly, feeling too conflicted to speak.

She gave him a somewhat amused look. "Nico, I'm over a thousand years old, and I've seen many things in my lifetime. There's nothing you have that I haven't seen a million times before."

He felt a bit better at this, but the anxiety remained. "I...I just...Oh, I don't know, this is just so, so..."

"Awkward?", Demeter finished, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He nodded, too embarrassed to speak anymore.

The goddess smiled reassuringly at him. "Don't feel so bad, you don't have to get in. I can just wash your hair in the sink, if that makes it easier."

He stared at the bathtub for a moment, thinking. _She went to all this trouble to draw me a bath, but it's weird to think that I'm going to be washed as if I'm a little kid again. But I don't want to seem ungrateful either, and the bath looks pretty nice..._

Demeter must have read the conflicted expression on his face and decided to use the sink instead, because she reached out a hand to turn the water off. Nico let out a cry of, "Wait!"

She turned to give him a questioning look, her hand still hovering by the bathtub knob. "What is it? I thought you didn't want to take a bath."

Nico struggled to figure out how to articulate a proper explanation, wringing his hands as his mind raced. "It's not that I don't want to take a bath. I mean, you went to all this trouble, and I don't think I should just waste that, but it feels weird to be given a bath when I'm not a little kid anymore..."

She stared at him for a moment, as if pondering something, before a mischievous expression spread across her face, and she snapped her fingers.

Nico felt a warm, tingling sensation spread across his body, and then suddenly, he was _shrinking. _Hands and feet became smaller, more childish, his body becoming smaller and a bit more filled out; his skin turned back to its original olive shade, and his hair shortened slightly. Fingers and toes become smaller, a bit rounder, and his face filled out, losing the gaunt appearance that had already been improved by Demeter's care.

A moment later, a small boy, looking to be about four or five years of age, was standing in the puddle of Nico's clothes, swamped by the now too-big garments.

Demeter smiled at him, a hint of mischief still present in her eyes as she said, "Well, you're little again, so being given a bath shouldn't be a problem anymore, hmm?"

Nico stared at her in disbelief. He looked down at his smaller body, stared at the little hands and feet, at the clothing that now hung off his shrunken frame. When he finally managed to find his voice, it came out in a higher pitch, the words slurred slightly, and given his shocked state, sounded little more than an embarassingly mouse-like squeak. "I'm...I'm _little _again?"

She nodded, apparently greatly amused by the whole thing. "Well, you said that you didn't want to be given a bath when you're not a small child anymore, but now you are, so the problem is solved."

He looked around the room, which now looked exaggerated in size, much bigger than before. The bathtub alone looked like a swimming pool.

But he didn't have to feel embarrassed now. Little kids got bathed by their parents or older siblings all the time, it was only natural when most of the time, people at this age still needed help with doing things that usually took a bigger person to lend a hand.

He walked over to the bathtub, almost tripping over the hem of his pants several times in the process, and looked up to study Demeter, who was still wearing that amused look.

_She looks so much bigger now, at this size my head's barely past her knees._

Indeed, Demeter towered over him by at least a few feet, a hand reaching down slightly to trail fingers through his hair. A moment later, he was suddenly hauled up to sit on the edge of the tub, and she snapped her fingers. His too-big clothes were replaced instantly with a pair of swimming trunks.

A second later, he was picked up again, and then he was suddenly up to his neck in warm, herb-scented water. Nico spluttered in shock, too surprise to form words for a moment. Demeter merely laughed, and then a bottle was taken from the block by the tub, the glittering white-gold contents shaken into the water.

Bubbles formed instantly, of all shapes and sizes, and glittering in the light with a rainbow hue, filling the water with color. Nico instantly forgot any protests, his younger body's instinctive urge to play with the pretty colored soap bubbles overriding any more ideas of resistance due to embarrassment. Fingers trailed through his hair, rubbing in shampoo, and then conditioner, and then water was poured over him, washing away the bubbles that coated his shoulders. The brush from the rack was put into his hands, and he obediently started scrubbing his back, glad to be able to at least help clean himself. Due to his shrunken size, the motions with the brush were somewhat difficult, and caused him to splash water all over the place, including out of the tub and onto Demeter. To his relief, she only gave him a slightly annoyed look for a moment, before laughing slightly and pouring another bucket of water over his head to rinse out any remaining conditioner.

When the bath was over, the tub was drained, and Nico was picked up and swathed in a fluffy, deep green towel. He sat on a stool by the sink, drying himself off as Demeter took a brush and began smoothing out the tangles in his hair. Demeter hummed softly as she finished, trailing fingers through the now knot-free locks as if to double-check that there were no more tangles or snares. Nico leaned back slightly and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling.

A toothbrush was given to him after this, as well as the only tube of toothpaste Nico had ever seen that was cereal-flavored. He didn't question it, knowing that to ask would likely be pointless. The taste, to his surprise, wasn't as bad as he thought it might be, instead seeming to be mild, with a slightly sweet aftertaste, as if flavored with honey. Toothpaste foam dribbled down his chin, puffing his cheeks out like a chipmunk, before he spit it out in the sink to keep from having to swallow it. Before he could protest that he could do it himself, a washcloth swiped across his face and cleaned up the excess toothpaste foam. A snap of Demeter's fingers, and Nico found his towel replaced with a set of soft brown cotton pajamas.

The toothpaste and toothbrush were put away, and Nico found himself feeling quite sleepy. Perhaps it was the fact that he was now little again, or that he'd had a long day, or maybe it was because he felt warm, and safe, and rather happy. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, and tried not to start yawning.

This only lasted a few seconds, because a yawn bubbled up and burst forth before he could stop it, and then he felt the sudden sensation of being lifted up again, and then warmth pressing against him. He opened his eyes and found himself cradled against Demeter's shoulder, the scent of wildflowers and fresh bread and butter all around him. Blinking sleepily, he leaned back against his caretaker's shoulder and closed his eyes.

_Oh well, this isn't so bad. It's nice and warm, too._

The goddess walked out of the room with a half-asleep demigod in her arms, the candles going out as they left the room, the door shutting with a soft _click._

A few minutes later, Nico sat, somewhat awkwardly, atop the covers of his bed, trying determinedly not to think about the fact that he was about to be put to bed as if he was little again.

_Well, I guess I sort of **am **little again now. So why doesn't that bother me?_

His mug was in his hands, a bedtime drink of warm milk filling the container, steam drifting about to spill over his hands and tickle his chin. The pillow pressed against the headboard was soft, pliant, and smelled faintly of lavender, molding against his back.

_I've just been given a bath by the Greek goddess of the harvest. I've been de-aged to the point where I look like a toddler. And I'm waiting for a bedtime story. What on earth has my life become?_

He looked up to the goddess coming into the room with a candle in one hand. She sat down beside him, putting the candle on the table by the bed. A old copy of _The Odyssey _appeared on her lap, the book opening itself to the first page instantly. He closed his eyes as he listened to the words, warm and soothing like the tropical waters of the glittering, bottle-green summer sea.

Just before he fell asleep, the answer to his question came to him. _Oh right, it's become like home._


	12. Chapter 11: A Talk with the big bad Dad

When he awoke, it was to the sound of furious shouting, muffled by the thick walls of the room. Nico blinked sleepily, sitting up from under his quilt to listen to what was going on. He couldn't hear much of the conversation, though from the raised voices and tones, he could tell that whoever was speaking was incredibly angry. Straining his ears, he could make out snatches of conversation.

"He needs to go back-"

"No, he does not! If you think that I'll just let you waltz in here and take that boy back to that contemptible excuse for a proper, nurturing living space-"

"I'm taking him with me, whether you agree to it or not. He's not staying here! This is not his home!"

"He's staying _here_, and that is the end of it! Nico has been through enough already, his sister is dead, his mother is dead, and so help me, if you don't get out of here right this instant, god or not, _you _will be dead!"

"He isn't yours, he's not your responsibility. I'm taking him back to the palace and that's final!"

Nico shivered, burying himself under the covers and wishing fervently that all the yelling would stop. The voices were frightening, and given the fact that he still was in his five-year-old form, the effect was worsened.

The door to the room burst into light and vanished, vaporized by the sheer raw power radiating off the forms of the two agitated Greek deities. Nico shuddered, unwilling to look out of his cocoon of quilt fabric and see that ordeal playing out. Hades and Demeter stood opposite each other, the bed holding Nico the only thing separating them.

Hades had arrived at the house only a few minutes earlier, dressed regally in darkened silk robes painted with a motif of a winter forest. His shoes, polished black leather sandals, clicked up sparks across the floor as he'd paced back and forth. Demeter had taken only a single glance at the god of death at her neatly swept doorstep, and had shut the door in his face, a sign appearing on the door that said **_No solicitors, no polluters, no unsuitable parents. Violaters will be turned into mulch to be used in the vegetable_**_** garden**._ A series of rapid clicking noises informed him that all the other windows and doors leading in and out of the house had also been locked.

Unfortunately, Hades had chosen to ignore this warning, and instead shadow-traveled into the house through the crack between the door and the ground. Demeter, however, was ready for him, and with a snap of her fingers, several kitchen utensils (namely the infamous wooden spoon, a metal frying pan, and a rolling pin) came flying out of the cupboards to attack the lord of the dead. He'd promptly burned and melted them all with magic, and an argument had broken out over the uninvited intrusion in Demeter and Nico's home. During the course of the argument, Hades had brought up the topic of Nico's current living arrangements, and Demeter ended up shouting at him that Nico wasn't ever going back there (unless he wanted to), and then everything had spiraled from there.

So now the two deities stood glaring at each other, Hades looking dangerously annoyed, Demeter looking overprotective and murderous. Nico refused to come out from under the blankets, knowing that if he did, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from looking up. He didn't want to become involved. He liked it here, it was warm and cozy and bright, a little island of comfort adrift in the dark, turbulent sea of the unfeeling underworld.

And if he left, he would leave Demeter as well. He didn't want to do that. Warm, gentle smiles, a soft, homey embrace, that ancient gaze with all the love and empathy in all the underworld, and all those hundred other little things he'd grown to like, grown to associate with a word he hadn't found proper use for in so very long...

_Home. _

Such a big, complicated, beautiful, _sad _word. Why was it sad?

_It's sad when it's over._

Nico felt a horrible, gut-wrenching fear that this might just be the time when it _would _be over, if something wasn't done to stop it.

But what could he do? He was only one demigod, a mere child, nay, an infant in the eyes of the gods, if even that. And he was still de-aged.

But he had to try anyway. If he didn't...well, he knew, thankfully, that Demeter wouldn't let him go without a fight, but his father wasn't the type anyone would want to anger. If the argument escalated to actual fighting...

_Please, don't let that happen. I don't want this place ripped to shreds._

Demeter and Hades, oblivious to the conflict playing out in Nico's mind, were still hurtling words at one another, verbal clods of earth, stinging and harsh.

"This is _kidnapping_! What right do you claim to have in taking him away in the first place?"

The goddess let out a harsh laugh, eyes dark as she stared at Hades in cold amusement. "Well, isn't that just _rich_, coming from _you_, of all people?"

Hades stood silently for a moment, looking for all the world to be one of the marble statues in Persephone's garden, immobile, icy, alabaster clad in the fine garments befitting the afterlife. His eyes, maniacal and fiery as that of an insane genius, burned with damnation as he looked at Demeter, as if he wished nothing more than for her to stop speaking and leave entirely.

Nico forced down the urge to hide under the quilt again, ignoring the instincts of his childlike form in order to keep watching. Demeter shifted slightly, standing ever so slightly closer to the bed, as if to keep Nico shielded from view.

When she spoke, her voice was dark, frigid and unyielding as a frozen Russian lake in the dead of winter. "Get _out_. Nico isn't yours, you don't even want him for himself, you want him for what he can do for you. Well, too bad, because he's _mine_. He stays _here_, with _me_, and if you ever try to intervene in our home again, you. will. _suffer._"

The room shuddered, the house shivering like a leaf caught in a gale, and then the ground _burst._

Thousands upon thousands of stalks of wheat, blooming and rising upwards, reaching for the sun that could not be felt, in a explosion of rapid growth that broke through the earth and tore through the air in a rippling screech of sound. Dirt splattered everywhere, coating the area in a fine mist of deep brown soil. The room, along with the rest of the house and the garden and orchard around it, all became shredded in a blast of agricultural eruption that rendered the little house a wheat field rivaling the size of the Fields of Asphodel.

Hades stood in the middle of a gigantic wheat field, entirely alone. Demeter and Nico had both vanished, and there was nothing to see for miles except an enormous, empty sea of champagne-colored grain, all the stalks of varying heights, creating a jagged expanse of needles, all of which stung rather like bees, which he discovered upon trying to move through the grain.

Far off, deep in the farthest edges of the fields, a woman in a long beige dress sat in the hollow of the branches of an fruit-laden apple tree. Sitting in her lap was a small boy of perhaps four or five years old, clutching the hem of her apron as he stared up at his caretaker in surprise.

"H...how did you...?"

Demeter smiled slightly, trailing fingers reassuringly through the dark hair. "Don't worry, I came up with a backup plan, just in case your father ever tried to come and take you back with him. Since it took a bit of power to make that little growth spurt in the fields, the house, the garden, and the orchard will be restored by tomorrow morning, but he won't be able to find us again. I've charmed the wheat fields surrounding the property to rearrange themselves every few minutes, rather like the Labyrinth. He'll be able to find his way out, but the field will simply lead him everywhere _but _where we are."

Nico looked up at Demeter, fingers letting go of the apron fabric as he said quietly, "Thank you...".

She hummed a bit in response, before snapping her fingers. The quilt from his bed appeared, and she tucked it snugly around him, bundling him up in the warm fabric, before tilting his chin upwards so he could look into her eyes. "I'm not letting him take you away, I promise. I said it was our home, remember? I can't have it as our home if you aren't there, now can I?"

He shook his head, feeling warmth flood his body. The warm didn't come from the quilt.

The goddess leaned back against the tree, humming softly under her breath, as she felt the demigod in her arms slacken, breathing becoming deep and even as sleep overcame him. She looked at her young charge, so peaceful in sleep. Nico was no longer that painfully stark white pale, his skin tone on its way to becoming olive tan again. He wasn't as thin either, the regular meals filling him out to a healthy stature, and the deep blue veins no longer stood out on his wrists anymore. There were no longer any dark rings around his eyes from lack of proper sleep, either.

She came to a decision. _Not bad...but I think he could still fit in a bowl of cereal or two. _

That could wait until morning, however. In the meantime, she would hold him, seeing as there was no proper bed available. She tightened her hold on him, arms curling around the skinny frame of the demigod pressed against her.

Somewhere at the opposite side of the field, a frustrated lord of the dead was healing the newest batch of cuts from the sharp, prickly wheat stalks. _Curse that sister of mine and her awful grains. I hate paper cuts. _


	13. AUTHOR'S NOTE! PLEASE READ!

**IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ!**

**To all you readers and followers of my stories, please note that there will be NO updates or uploads of ANY stories of mine from June 6, 2013-June 26, 2013 (unless I am very lucky and can beg a relative to let me use their computer to type).**

**The reason for this is quite simple: I'M GOING TO EUROPE THIS SUMMER!**

**Yes, that's right, I'm going off to that madcap continent of gorgeous European history, equally gorgeous people, and general tourist-attracting awesomeness. My family and I are heading to Western Europe for about three weeks or so, give or take a few days, and as this is the first time that I've gone to Europe since I was about five or so years old, I'm quite excited. The only memory I've got from then is when my Grandma took me to feed the goats.**

**I can't wait to go, we're spending time in England, Wales, France, Spain, and Germany, and possibly Switzerland and Italy! **

**The fact that I'm an avid Hetalia fan, proud Doctor Who nut, lifelong Harry Potter fanatic, _and_ a longtime history lover is also quite influential on this, since the entire time I'm over there, I'm probably going to be preoccupied with thinking about "Where _am_ I on this nation's body?" or "Wait, is that a TARDIS!? No wait, it's just an ordinary 1960s police box, never mind, false alarm! Although my Tardis key won't work on it, then..." or "Oh Merlin, that's that studio movie set for Hogwarts! I want to see inside, let me in, let me in! I've got a wand!" XD**

**The fact that I get to go to England first (and last, we're leaving through Heathrow) is also a major plus, as my family is convinced (and quite rightly so) that I seem to have an obsession with the United Kingdom's popular culture and history, which is probably due in part because I was raised on a literary diet of Harry Potter, the Lord of the Rings, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Peter Pan, and have a lifelong love of tea, scones, and fish n' chips. My liking of Eddie Izzard humor also plays a massive part in it, since now I can't even look at the European Union without thinking of the European Dream of "Hilda! Hilda! Wake up Hilda! I dreamt that every single country in Europe spoke a different language and they hated each other. Oh wait, that's true isn't it?"**

**My family each gets to choose a part of Europe that they want to visit, so this is a basic list of where in the massive European World Meeting chaos we'll be in for most of June:**

**1) ME: I chose the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, so I get to go to London (though thankfully my folks remember which side of the road to drive on), Stonehenge ("Helllllllllllllooooooooooooo, Stonehenge! Whoever takes the Pandorica, takes the universe!" XD), Torchwood (though the lack of Captain Jack Harkness will be a bit off-putting for my inner fangirl), the RAF Museum (I'm going to be looking at all the uniforms for ages and ages), Churchill's bunker (Which, thanks to that "Skyfall" movie last year, I will forever associate with a secretly relocated base of operations for the M16), plus that nice town in Wales that is dedicated completely to Doctor Who (which means my family will probably have to drag me away kicking and screaming "NO! I don't want to leaaaaaavvvvvvveeeeeeee!")! I even get to bring along my friend Ellie's special "Weeping Angel" edition hand painted converse, so I can RUN LIKE THE 10TH DOCTOR (Although it will be a bit harder to take off my shoes if I have to look without blinking)! And I get to drink all the tea that I want, which is great since I consume over a pint every day over here alone, over there I can go wild and no one will stare at me like I'm nuts! **

**2) MY SISTER: She chose France (for me, it's the land of the fashionably-dressed and the home of great cheese), so we're going to fly over there from England into Paris (I kind of wanted to take the Tube, since it reached the big 150-anniversary this year and if I could I would stay in England longer, but my folks said no, it's too crowded). We'll be sightseeing tourists in silly clothes, lugging backpacks and trying to drink the Starbucks that have sadly invaded such a lovely country. The Louvre, the Tour Eiffel, and several old castles are on the list of stuff to see, although my sister and I are going to be tour guides for this particular country (I took 4 years of French, my sister took 2 so far), so hopefully we won't get lost! I'm going to feel kind of strange over there, since I'm going to be able to eat all the bread and cheese I want (two things my mother has claimed for a long as I can remember that I could literally live off of if I wanted to), but I'm the only one in our family that drinks tea on a constant basis (everyone else drinks coffee, which I don't like whatsoever, since it's too off-tasting for me)...**

**3) MY MOM: Spain is her choice. She really wants to go somewhere nice and sunny and friendly, and Spain is a good place for that sort of thing. I just wish that I could stop thinking of Hetalia's Spain though, since I'll be over there and all I'll be able to think of is "Hmm, how close am I to Spain's butt?" (if you're wondering about that, just remember that he has a great-looking backside XD). And since we're going in June instead of August or September, unfortunately, we can't take part in the tomato-throwing festival, which looks ridiculously fun and amazing to do (Seriously, it's a day where you're literally all but _required_ to throw tomatoes at each other like a crazy paint war, that's awesome!).**

**4) MY DAD: He wants to go to Italy. In which case, we're going to be facing wild, possibly dangerous drivers (where my Dad will fit right in, since he drives really fast and is kind of reckless at times), loads of great food (I'm probably going to inwardly yell "PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" every time I eat something), incredible artwork (I'm using some of my allowance to buy some pencils and a sketchpad for this country), and visiting Rome (in this case, all I'll be able to think about the whole time is Grandpa Rome on the gondola back in WW2 singing "In Hell, all the cooks would be British, the police would all be German, and the engineering would fall to the French..." XD) and the Roman Coliseum.**

**5) SWITZERLAND AND GERMANY: I know that Germany is a definite place we're going to, since I have a ton of cousins and relatives over there (My paternal Grandmother lived on a little farm on Silesia with her family, a bunch of farm animals, and possibly the most dangerous children's swing set in all of Europe (it was literally a pair of ten feet tall wooden stakes (a bit like the logs they throw in the Highland Games), with a thick plank of wood suspended by two thick metal chains, and the swing seat was at least six feet off the ground. You had to stand on it to swing properly, and one time someone swung too far out and ended up flying off it and landing face first (unharmed but very stinky afterward) in the manure pile XD). I love German food, my Grandma literally raised me on that stuff, it's delicious (although now our sauerkraut jar at home is half-empty thanks to my efforts).**

**Switzerland, I'm not so sure if we're going to go visit. We have some relatives living there, but I don't know if our schedule will allow us to go for longer than a day or two at most, if even that. If we do go, I hope we can see the Cern Facility, it looks really, really cool. Although I'm probably going be feeling paranoid most of the time...**

**And as I'm of drinking age in Europe now, I CAN HAVE BEER (And wine, but that's beside the point)! Hopefully, no one in my family gets crazy with the alcohol, since over half my relatives in Europe are German, and their beer is supposed to be awesome. If I actually get drunk, hopefully I don't end up acting like Prussia, since I don't want to be arrested. Prison would be bad for me, I'd annoy everyone else in there by spouting facts about Wrackspurts and Nargles all day.**

**Well, I've got finals to do (my math teacher seems to be human incarnate of the sadistic pink bunny rabbit from that "When You're Evil" fanmade music video), stuff to pack into my backpack (just the essentials: duct tape, clothes, spare tea, etc.), and then it's off to the airport full of super-paranoid American security precautions (though you can't really blame them), and then praying to Jashin, Warg, Pein, L, Merlin, and every single deity from the "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" series that we don't end up with an exploded engine, or crash onto an island like on "Lost", or end up becoming trapped and super paranoid and threaten to throw each other off the plane like on that episode of "Doctor Who" entitled _Midnight. _**


	14. I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

**Hello, my beloved minions! I mean, readers, yes, that's it, readers, hehe...**

**I have returned from that lovely, madcap continent known as EUROPE! Almost three whole weeks of nothing but MADNESS! THE MADNESS!**

**Three weeks of sexy European accent overload, three weeks of tasty foreign food, three weeks of driving around in a crazy rental car with a GPS so horrible that, in honor of the author DragonQueenSori, who came up with such a hilarious thing in the forst place, I ended up dubbing the damn thing the infamous name "Hitler" (I'm not kidding, that thing was EVIL. It wouldn't take any address punched into it, it would send us all over the map with super complicated directions, then it told us to turn or stop where we shouldn't or couldn't, and it wouldn't take any GPS coordinates we put into it. All the while with that same monotonus voice that made me want to tear it out of the rental car and stab it with something. The GPS in France was, if possible, WORSE: this one had all the flaws of the first GPS, but it also wouldn't tell us where to turn until we were already doing the turning, and it's directions were even more horrible. We typed in the coordinates to get to the CERN Facility in Switzerland (we had enough time to go visit for a day if we got up early to get a head start on the driving), and it sent us to a campground...in the mountains...in the the middle of one of the barely-mapped areas...on a one-way only road. Mom and Dad got so angry that we couldn't find CERN that we almost didn't go because Dad refused to drive unless Mom would help him find the right directions. Dad and I named this GPS "H2" after he vetoed "Napoleon".). And then the French gave us the wrong rental car, we asked for a Mercedes and we got a rental car that had no English instruction manual, too many unexplained buttons, a stuck "child safety lock" on both sides of the back seat, and a very narrow front window...which got a crack across the windshield after getting hit by a rock in high-speed traffic while driving in Germany. **

**But the people we met across Europe were pretty cool, very helpful and polite to us. In England, I even met a nice Australian man and his lady friend who showed me where the nearest store with Jaffa Cakes was. Those things are AWESOME, I ended up splitting a three-pack with my sister by Buckingham Palace and then my Dad surprised me with a supersize pack the next day (which I ate within about 3 days with only a little help, I think I left the UK as a permanent Jaffa Cake junkie).****The people in Wales and France were pretty nice too (well, in France we did have a few problems when we ran into this very aggressive waiter in St. Tropeze who insisted that we order exactly as he wanted us to, or else we could leave. We ended up eating that night at the restaurant across the street, which had a very nice waitress who my sister and I translated for, since she didn't speak enough English to talk to my parents.). I just wish that the French in Paris would be a bit...more hygenic about their sidewalks and streets. Everywhere we went in Paris, the pets and birds left little disgusting "presents" everywhere that no one would clean, so we had to step around them all the time. The smoking, though, we could deal with alright, since most of Europe likes to smoke everywhere, even though it made it kind of hard to enjoy a meal at times when the guy behind or in front of you is surrounded by a cloud of smoke that gets blown your way by the wind all the time. The Doctor Who experience in Cardiff was awesome, Dad even got to try out a spare Dalek prop and freak out the other visitors with "Exterminate! Exterminate!" every few minutes, and I had a major fangirl moment upon getting to check out all the costume props (although the regeration of the 10th Doctor they had replaying in the background of the 2005 Tardis control room made me want to cry...). The Harry Potter Experience on the outskirts of London was also epic, they gave us a full tour and showed us all the major props and costumes and sets involved, and I got to have Butterbeer for the second time in my life! That stuff really _is _magic. Although the fact that they only sell it both there and in Florida made it kind of hard not to crack up laughing...Darn my Hetalia associations with international locations. St. Tropeze was a great little French town by the sea, nice people, good food (although everyone wanting to order the beef stew with gnocchi made it hard to decide on dinner), and there was even a nice little Italian gelato shop where the servers scoop out triple-scoop ice creams that they sculpt into the shape of blooming roses (and let me tell you, the "after-dinner" mint chip, chocolate mousse, and "Tiramisu" ice cream combination is pure _magic_.). **

**Getting to France from Wales was harder than we thought it would be: only a few minutes after boarding the flight to Paris, we were informed by the pilot that our flight would be delayed for an hour or so because the French airport we were supposed to land in had all its workers go on strike. It was quite awkward for me, I'd never experienced that before. Although it _was_ kind of funny to hear the pilot sigh and tell us over the intercom, "Attention all passengers, terribly sorry about the delay, but the French have gone on strike again. Would anyone like a complementary drink while we wait?" **

**Dear Merlin, between the British Museum and the Louvre, I think I could just live in museums forever and ever, there's just so much cool stuff to see! Dad and I both can stay at a museum for hours, it drives Mom nuts. Between those two places, I don't think that I'll ever need to see Egypt or Greece, there's so much stuff from both places, it's insane. Switzerland was cool, the CERN Facility was a total geekout-fest for me, since I like Physics, but the 55 MPH driving speed they had everywhere drove Dad nuts XD**

**I really liked it in Germany, the food was delicious, the architecture was gorgeous, and the people were nice. Since I have tons of relatives over there, we stayed with several cousins and their families. Their households remind me of Hobbit-holes: warm, cheerful, homey, with a bunch of stuff everywhere, and enough food and nice company for you to want to stay forever. Beer has officially become part of the things I miss about Europe, since I'm still too young to drink in the U.S. and I've become used to having it at mealtimes. I can just _see _a mental image of a tiny little Prussia chibi scowling because there will be no proper beer...**

**I'm seriously going to miss being able to eat the food in Europe, so fresh and not stuffed with preservatives and hormones. Even the little bakeries and meat shops they have are better than all the supermarkets back home, where you** **have to go to a pricey specialty shop to get anything even close to really good quality. **

**And as insane as it may sound to some, out of all the different kinds of food we had in Europe, I honestly miss England's food the most. Yorkshire Pudding, endless custard jugs, the bottles of ginger beer, the endless cups of tea (I kind of overindulged, since Mom wouldn't normally let me drink so much back home, but it _was_ England, so she let it slide), Jammy Dodgers, Jaffa Cakes, fish n' chips, meat pies, baked beans on toast for breakfast, and about a million other things that I tried that I miss. I even miss the black pudding, and my mother thought I was crazy for liking that. Well, at least if I study over there, I know that I won't starve. Mom and Dad were surprised at the food, they (well, unfortunately, my Mom did, my Dad can, and will, eat pretty much anything) thought the food would be bad, but it turns out that the food was great! Dad even joked that the "bad cooking" stereotype was a rumor created by jealous Parisians XD **

**The food aside, I'm going to miss the double-decker buses (seriously, sitting in the front row up on the top level is like the ultimate shotgun, you see everything), the lights all over the city, waking up to listen to the hustle and bustle of people outside...And the accents. I'm usually pretty good about not being a part of stereotyping, but accents in the UK are like a vocal version of high-quality chocolate to me, and I'm known in my family as a chocoholic. I am an accent fangirl, and I'm proud of it!**

**I'm also rather surprised to find so many Doctor Who references that seem to have popped up while I was in Europe. Aside from the Doctor Who Experience itself, in Germany we had three things happen on the same day: one of our older relatives had a statue in his garden that looks disturbingly like one of the "Saved" interfaces from the Doctor Who episode _Silence in the Library_, and on top of that, we took family pictures and Dad, the camera man, kept telling us "Stay out of the shadows!", and then when we were driving later on the rock hit our windshield and made a great big crack. Not to mention I kept finding Tardis blue stuff everywhere: blue buildings, blue jewelry, blue clothes, even a man in a Tardis blue full-body jumpsuit in England who passed us by when we visited a food festival. Weird, huh?**

**Unfortunately, we didn't get to go visit Spain, or either half of Italy. There wasn't enough time, since the schedule Mom planned for us didn't allow for it. Hopefully the next time I go to Europe, I'll be able to go see it. Although in France we had a ton of tourists from Italy and Spain on the beaches with us, so I still got a bit of a taste of both countries. **

**Anyway, thank you very much for being so patient with me these past few weeks away. I hadn't gotten the chance to get on the computer until recently, since my sister and I had no access to technology during the trip. However, we stayed the last few days of our trip with a wealthy realtive and his family (they own and operate a manufacturing and distribution business for high-quality organic wine), and they were nice enough to let me use their Ipad to type up this and the chapters I wrote in my notebook. I'll be uploading each chapter that I wrote while I was on vacation one at a time, so the updates will probably be between one to three times a week if possible, depending on the rest of my summer plans and homework. **


	15. Chapter 12: A Good-bye, A New Start

When Nico opened his eyes, he knew instinctively that something was very, very _wrong_.

He wasn't sitting in Demeter's lap anymore. The warmth, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread and fruit jam, the little clouds of flour that fell on him whenever she held him..._gone. _Demeter wasn't here. Nico could feel a rising sense of panic creeping up on him, which worsened as he took in his surroundings further.

The air was not the warm, welcoming breeze of Demeter's little bubble of Eden, but icy, clinging to him like a straightjacket, wrapping around his entire body and piercing him with sharp stabs of cold, all the way down to the marrow of his bones. The cold _hurt. _

There was something else, though. Nico found, to his horror, that he couldn't see. All around him was a frigid expanse of pitch black, darker than anything he'd ever seen. He turned around, looking in all directions, blinking rapidly to see if anything had changed, but everywhere he turned, it was just so _dark. _Not even the underworld had been this bad.

_Where am I?_

Nico shuddered, feeling sick. He drew in a breath to calm himself, but there was no air. Water, so cold it burned like a white-hot branding, flooded his mouth and nose, choking him. Immediately, panic set in as he frantically tried to expel the incoming water. Spitting it back out, to his shock, released the water in a rush of rippling current and a cloud of molten silver bubbles. Nico's eyes widened with shock.

He was underwater. _Oh no._

How far down was he? How was he not drowning from lack of air? Nico couldn't even see the surface. Why wasn't he passing out from a lack of oxygen and drowning?

_I thought only children of Posidein and the other sea dieties could breath underwater. Why am I not drowning?_

Any thoughts of understanding this were pushed aside as something moved, just out of sight. He whirled around, senses on high alert. _There's something down here with me. What if it's a monster? I don't have my sword with me, amd I don't know if any of my powers would work here!_

But to his surprise, what floated in the distance was not a monster at all. Nico blinked, trying to process what was in front of him.

Floating in the expanse of inky darkness was a hazy, blurred apparition, faded and pale, as if an echo of something long past. But he knew, all the same, who the person was. She'd taken care of him until she'd died, after all. She had known him better than almost anyone else.

But why was his sister down here? Why was Bianca, dead now for some time, flosting like a mirage in the dark of this strange, freezing place?

He studied her, trying to understand. Obviously, this couldn't actually be Bianca, she couldn't leave her allotted place of rest in the underworld unless she was summoned. As far as Nico knew, he and his father were the only ones at the moment who could do such a summoning. As he hadn't done any summonings since he'd started spending time with Demeter, and his father was too busy to do it himself, this was not likely to be Bianca's ghost.

A hallucination, then?

_Maybe I'm seeing things because there's no oxygen down here, and this is my mind's way of coping with a slow death by suffocation underwater._

He wondered idly if the mirage would do anything other that float in the distance, when she began coming closer. Nico wasn't afraid, he'd been around the dead for so long that being fearful did not even occurr to him. He felt little more than apathy now.

But as she came closer, Nico felt the numbness vanish, replaced by shock as the figure became more discernable. _That isn't Bianca...but...no, it can't be, it's not possible for me to see her..._

Yet there she was, still lovely in death, as if preserved like the old photographs of her era, dark, breathtaking, and eternal. Her hair was long, rich black curls that rumbled past her shoulders, floating around her like a funeral shroud on a windy day. Her skin was the same olive tan that he and Bianca shared, and the deep grey dress she wore swirled and floated around her like a slowly churning pool of silver. Eyes, gentle orbs of deep black, gazed at him with both love and hunger, as if she would never be able to look at him enough. Her entire slender figure was slightly hazy, faded, an echo.

Nico stared, frozen with shock, at the ghostly figure of his mother.

"Nico..."

His name was little more than a whisper, but it echoed in the frigid, dark space, rippling and resounding through the water like the echo in a church. Nico took a moment to take in that single word, letting his mother's voice wash over him, letting the warmth suffused in it spread throughout his body. His eyes stung, vision blurring at the edges, and it took a moment for him to realize that he was crying.

But as he looked at her, he saw that her expression was also troubled, worry in her gaze.

"Nico, my little one, why are you down here?"

He blinked, surprised. He wondered if he should respond, if he even could respond. He wasn't drowning, it seemed, so perhaps he could try and speak? _It's worth a try. I don't know how long this will last, after all._

Opening his mouth, he started to answer her, but the words choked him, clogging his throat until all that came out was a shaky whisper. "Mom..."

She came forward, seeming to drift through the shadowy water, and then suddenly Nico found himself wrapped in an embrace, gentle and warm. The stinging at the edges of his vision became worse, and he curled as close as he could, trying to prove to himself that he wasn't dreaming. But the arms around him felt solid, real, not the wispy, impossible embraces he'd recieved from his sister's ghost.

A slender finger tilted his chin upwards, and he found himself staring into an identical pair of pitch black eyes, dark as a raven's wing in winter. "Nico, why are you here?"

Somewhat shakily, he answered her. "I don't know. I fell asleep on Demeter's lap, and then, when I opened my eyes, I was here..."

She stared at him, her expression both saddened and somewhat pitying. "I had hoped...that when I next saw you, it would be as a man well-lived, far from the perils of the gods. I've been so worried about you and your sister, always in danger. I could never see you after my death, fate was cruel in forbidding that we could not meet again in life. Now your sister stays with me, though I wished it would have been when she'd become much older. But you...you are still alive, you still have a chance to live. Yet you are here, where the dead are lost and forgotten, their memories left to rot in the waters of oblivion...Is there something here that you need to remember, some yearning for something lost?"

Nico stared, trying to understand. _The waters of oblivion...I'm...I'm in the Lethe?_

She kept her gaze steady, patiently waiting for an answer. Nico's mind raced, trying to find an answer._ Memories, she said, but memories of what? The memories that are forbidden to me, the memories of the life before Mom died? Is that it?_

He shuddered slightly, trying to collect himself enough to answer. "I think," he said quietly, "that I'm here because I miss my old memories, the ones that got washed away...I missed _you_."

Maria di Angelo smiled sadly at her son, her eyes gentle, glimmering faintly at the edges with tears that couldn't be seen fully in the water. "I know. And I know that you miss me, just as I have missed you."

Something in her voice made him feel sad, and understanding bloomed in the dark. He looked at her, searching the dark eyes for a moment, before saying quietly, "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

She shook her head, a rueful half-smile on her face, her eyes shining softly in the dark, like the dim glow of a candle through a window one evening at summer's end. "No, I'm afraid not, not until you've passed on yourself. But I'll be watching over you anyways, along with your sister."

He nodded, not sure if he could trust himself to speak. Instead, he pressed himself closer, trying to memorize every detail, fingers taking hold of the folds of her dress and rubbing the silken fabric slowly, trying to remember the soft feeling. Her scarf floated by, brushing his shoulders with soft touches; her hair brushed the back of his neck, soft and tickling. Maria wrapped her arms close around him, reaching out a hand. Nico's eyes widened as he felt fingers, soft, slender, and warm, trail through his hair. A thought occurred to him, and he took a deep breath, taking in the scent. _Home really **does **smell like soup..._

When he managed to find it in himself to speak up, he spoke quietly. "I don't regret it," he said, "not really. Even if it's only like this for the last time...it's still worth it. So thank you."

A finger tilted his chin upward, and Nico looked up, unable to tear his gaze away. She spoke quietly, little more than a whisper, but he drank in every word. "Remember, my love, that it does not do well to think only of the forgotten, and leave alone the newfound."

He knew, somehow, that already, this time was ending, and the words bubbled up inside him, begging to be let free. Unwilling to let the chance go, he spoke up before the moment passed. "Mom," he whispered, by the gods, how he'd longed to be able to say that-

"Mom, I love you."

Nico trembled slightly, still shocked that he'd finally spoken it. He could feel it ending already; the warmth of her around him was starting to fade, her outline becoming more indistinct, but her smile and her affectionate gaze was still beautifully clear. A slight brush of her fingers against his cheek, light as the brush of a butterfly's wing, and Nico didn't so much hear as _felt _her reply in kind, "I love you too, son."

It was becoming lighter now, the water warmer, and he opened up his mouth again to speak before it was too late: "Have I been dreaming this? Or is it real?"

The laugh in response resounded, becoming fainter and fainter as a reply echoed back. "Nico, a mother's love is always real, no matter where it comes from. Don't forget it!"

The world went white, and then he knew nothing.

When he opened his eyes, he was still wrapped in the quilt from his bed, the branches of the tree swaying slightly. Demeter was looking at him, concern in her gaze.

"Nico, what is it? Why are you crying?"

He drew a hand up to his face, noticing, almost absentmindedly, the slowly drying tear tracks. He hiccupped slightly, a watery, but genuine smile forming. "I had a good dream..."

Demeter smiled slightly. "What was it about?"

He looked up, taking in the slight smile, the gentle gaze, the scent of warm bread, the warmth of the arms around him, still holding him. _Even if it was only a dream...Mom was right, it...it really **is** real. _

So he answered honestly. "A good-bye...and a beginning. But it's still the same."

She gave him a look of confusion. "What's the same?"

"Love is. I saw Mom...and we had a kind of official good-bye. I think I needed that, to help me let go. Now...now, I think I'm alright."

The goddess nodded, humming slightly. "That's good. Was there anything else?"

He nodded a little, a faint feeling of embarrassment and nervousness taking hold as he thought. _But would she even accept it? I'm not even part of her Cabin...and I'm technically her nephew, if you go by the family tree..._

Demeter waited for a moment, before breaking the silence that had fallen. "What is it that's got you so worried now? You look rather nervous about something."

Nico was quiet for a bit, before speaking up, his voice tinged with anxiety. "Well...when I was talking with Mom...she told me...she told me "A mother's love is always real", and I...I know this is a lot to ask you, since you've already done so much, but..."

She tilted her head slightly, an inquisitive look on her face. "And?", she prompted gently.

His voice was quieter now, slightly unsure, as if a bit afraid of her reaction. "You've been so nice...and I..I feel, I feel like part of a real family again...I mean, I know I've had a Mom before this, but I don't really remember that, and this time with you...well, I...I feel like that's what having a Mom is like. So, can I...". His voice trailed off at the end, obviously either too embarrassed or too uncertain to finish the sentence properly, the words getting muffled into the fabric of her dress as he silenced himself.

"Can you what?", she said, not unkindly.

"...clllyuummm," he mumbled, still unwilling to speak louder. She sighed slightly, lips twitching upwards slightly at the childish behavior. "What? I couldn't quite catch that."

He looked up then, and spoke again, slightly louder this time, though the anxiety was still easy to discern. "..Call you my Mom, or maybe something like it...?"

The goddess was struck speechless, eyes slightly wide as the question sank in. After a few moments of silence, she managed to find her voice again. "Yes", she said quietly, "Yes, you may."

For a moment, he stared at her, shocked, before the smile came back. The reply he gave her was soft, almost tentative, but she heard it all the same. "Thanks...Mom."

She settled back against the tree, holding him against her, smiling gently. _I wasn't really expecting that, but that doesn't mean it's a bad thing. Quite the opposite, really. _

She held back a laugh as a thought occurred to her. _Hades won't be happy about this, not one bit. _


	16. Why Meeting at Olympus is Never Normal

**Sorry for not updating sooner, I was rather busy during the 4rth of July weekend and with my summer homework, and then with a funeral for a family friend who recently passed away after a battle with cancer. **

**To make it up to you, and to get my mind off things, I've devised this chapter, in which we see something play out that I'm certain many have craved viewing: Hades, in truly dramatic Greek god fashion, takes up the issue of Nico's current living arrangements with the rest of Olympus. We all know this will end on an... interesting note. But rest assured, the 600th floor isn't going to be destroyed in the ensuing chaos. Hera would be quite mad about that, and everyone knows that if you get the Queen of Heaven mad at you, it will only end badly XD**

**Please note, as this story is an "AU" of sorts regarding Nico's time in _The Last Olympian_, I've decided to set this chapter directly after Percy gets the gods and goddesses to agree to do better regarding their children. I thought that chapter in the was the best place to start this one off, seeing as we've finally gotten the Olympians to agree on "better parenting". In this story, Hades gave assistance to Camp Half-Blood and Olympus without having to get Nico to convince him to help out, so while Persephone and Demeter are both here, Nico's taking a nap back at the now magically-reconstructed "fall/winter home" Demeter has in the Underworld. Therefore, the poor de-aged kid's not going to have to listen to the "towering temper tantrum" that will go off...at least, not at first. **

**On the other hand, I've set aside the second half of this chapter for a bit more heartwarming scene: while we all know that the deities can't _really _adopt a child of another god or goddess, that doesn't mean they can't give the kid something that says they're part of the family. So, hopefully you like my take on "adopting" him. **

* * *

The tortured halls of the beautiful citadel gleamed morosely in the light of the few untouched torches and candles placed in the Hall of the Gods. Sitting in a large semicircle on the polished marble floor were clusters of mismatched demigods, chattering with each other and checking each other's injuries. The numerous gods and goddesses of Olympus were wandering here and there amongst their children, reassuring themselves that not all had been lost in the horrors from earlier. Apollo had gathered his children to him, and together they were helping heal some of the worse injuries suffered. Tyson, as well as some of the other Cyclops, were entertaining some of the younger spirits who lived on Olympus by helping the Hephaestus Cabin build interesting gadgets out of the scrap metal littering the lower parts of Olympus. Hestia had managed to bring forth enough magic to summon hot, savory plates of food, and several Cabins had decided to sit down and eat, swapping battle stories with a few clusters of nature spirits rescued from Central Park. A few wood nymphs and satyrs were passing the food and drink out in paper plates and plastic cups conjured up by a somewhat reluctant Dionysius, who was sitting nearby his son Pollux, talking quietly.

Poseidon, having finished talking with Percy for the moment, stood aside with Zeus, feeling rather worried. Hades was pacing back and forth in the shadows of Hestia's hearth fire, a somewhat frustrated look on his face; the look in itself was cause for alarm. The Sea God turned to his brother, worry lines creasing his forehead. "I don't like this, he looks like he's about to incinerate something, and there's too many people in here for that."

Zeus stared contemplatively at Hades' discontent figure for a moment, pondering the pros and cons of trying to get him to calm down. If Hades grew angry at them, he was certain that the already ravaged structures of Olympus would be faced with freezing temperature drops, howling winds, mass blackouts, and a severe increase in fear and nightmares, to name a few problems. Hera would be _very _displeased to find her already mangled home reduced to further wanton wreckage if the Lord of the Dead "threw a hissy fit". He shuddered to think of her wrath if anything else was ruined.

Both siblings were interrupted in their musings when a sudden crackling, hissing noise from the hearth fire indicated a new offering. Hestia, her brown dress flickering with hints of amber and bronze in the dim light, headed barefoot towards the fire, her warm gaze shining slightly as she took in the sight of the offering: a large, shiny glass jam jar filled with fresh wildflowers, cuts of wheat, a few dried mushrooms, and a handkerchief containing a fork and a hot slice of apple pie topped off with ripe, juicy berries and fruit. A pair of red poppies, one larger than the other, tied the handkerchief partially shut to keep the food from spilling out. There was a note tied to the hinges of the jar lid with a piece of brown string, stating:

_Sorry that I couldn't come and give this to you in person, I was too tired. Mom says it's because my body's still small, so until the magic wears off I'm stuck taking the occasional nap. I can't really complain, though, it's actually rather nice to be small again. This offering is to say thank you for helping out so much, and for being such a nice person. I really am grateful for you looking out for me while I was on my own. I hope you like the pie, I'm not usually very good with baking, but since Mom helped it should taste alright. I sent this through the fireplace in the kitchen at home, so if anything else come's through, it'll probably be more food. Feel free to share it if you want._

_-Nico _

She reached out, gently lifting the jar and its contents from the fireplace with slender fingers. The scent of fresh lavender, orange poppies, and tulips filled her senses, as apple-scented steam rose in soft curls from the slightly damp handkerchief. A faint hint of freshly baked whole wheat bread lingered on the rim of the jar.

_Hmm, it looks like he's doing well for himself then. Good for him, Demeter will definitely work wonders for him. Poor child needs someone to look out for him, since it seems his father's short on affection._

The goddess quietly closed the jar, the lid locking shut with a soft _click. _She held up the container to the light of the torches, humming softly, before tucking it under one arm and wandering over to Demeter, who was standing close to her Cabin, fussing over her sons and daughters, none of whom were really protesting. Hestia held out the jar in explanation to the others' inquiring looks; Demeter smiled slightly in understanding. Taking a moment to tell her children they were free to converse elsewhere, the Harvest goddess approached Hestia, murmuring softly, "So, I take it you like Nico's little "care-package", then?"

Hestia smiled brightly, nodding. "I didn't know he could bake, the last time I saw the poor dear, he was living off packaged food while he was on his own."

Demeter frowned slightly at the mention of Nico's previous life on the streets, before replying quietly, "Yes, well, he's not living there anymore. He's staying with me, I've been doing my best to repair the damage of Hades' _parenting_. Honestly, favoritism to one child, all but complete neglect of the other, he's not fit to have any children if this is how he treats them. Hopefully, what I've got in mind for Nico will change that...".

Large, gentle reddish-brown eyes widened slightly, a single eyebrow raised in inquiry as Hestia asked, "What do you have in mind?"

Demeter smiled in response, leaning forward and starting to whisper.

On the other side of the room, there was a growing sense of unease and discontent from a certain Lord of the Dead, whose expression was changing rapidly from annoyed to positively murderous. Poseidon and Zeus had both discreetly moved father and farther away, close to an increasingly fearful-looking Bessie the Ophiotauros, as Hades became angrier. It was only a matter of time, after all, before "the volcano erupted", and no one wanted to witness a proverbial Pompeii again.

In truth, despite all the tension that could have ignited the conflict, it was actually the note attached to the jar that set off the argument equivalent to World War Three. The note, being attached to the jar only by a piece of string, came off rather easily; Hestia, pulling spoons and forks from her dress pockets, had gathered a half-dozen or so hungry-looking satyrs who wanted some dessert, so she'd offered to share her new "care package" with them. Every satyr got a spoonful of apple pie and fruit, along with a few of the other decorations in the jar. The note came loose and fluttered down to the floor in the process, and an accidental kick from one of the more eager satyrs sent it spinning across the floor... right at the feet of Hades.

It took only a few seconds to read the note, but the silence that ensued seemed to stretch out into infinity as the Lord of the Dead stood, still and quiet, staring with a frozen expression at the writing. There was a rumbling in the background, growing slowly louder, as if an army was approaching, and then screams of shock filled the air as an icy wind blasted through the Throne Room, frigid and biting. Candles and torches flickered dangerously before going out, plunging the room into rapid darkness. Hades tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, as if contemplating something, his face shadowed, expression unreadable in the gloom, before speaking up. The silken tones were cold enough to infuse ice into the bones of every demigod present, as he whispered quietly, "Demeter,_ what _is the meaning of this?"

Demeter leveled her gaze evenly to his, a somewhat mocking half-smirk dancing at the edges of her mouth as she replied curtly, "You and I both know what the meaning of _that _is, so don't play the fool here."

In an effort to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand entirely, Apollo snapped his fingers, causing small balls of sunlight to float up at ceiling level to restore some of the lost lighting. After a moment, he took a leap of faith and stepped in between the two deities, arms outstretched in a gesture of placation as he said somewhat nervously, "Ok you two, please stop. We just went through a war, we don't need another one..."

The attempt at stopping the conflict was sadly ignored, and Hades erupted instead in a fit of rage and indignation. "_I'm _the fool? What right have you to mock me? And _why_, pray tell, is my son addressing you in this note as his _parent_?"

The look he received in return was cold, and even somewhat annoyed, as if bored with his attitude. "Well," she replied in falsely cheerful tones, "We all knew that _someone _had to step up and be one, since you don't seem to quite fit _that _role very well, do you?"

The note on the ground erupted in a flash of black flames, reduced to ashes within only a moment. Every demigod, nature spirit, nymph, and Cyclops present all covered their ears and dove for cover as the argument was suddenly increased to eardrum-shattering volumes, the earlier icy wind blasting across the room and covering the floor and occupants in a fine layer of frost. The floor shook wildly, cracks appearing in the floor to spread out like an invading infection. Bessie the Ophiotauros mooed in dismay and swam to the bottom of his floating sphere of water, looking quite fearful. The Hermes Cabin began passing around earplugs to help block out the noise.

"HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF BAD PARENTING-"

"YOU'RE THE WORST POSSIBLE PARENT HE COULD'VE HAD, ALL YOU DO IS MOPE AND COMPLAIN THAT HE ISN'T HIS SISTER-"

"I DO NOT! YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, HARP CONSTANTLY ABOUT CEREAL AND CRITICIZE EVERYTHING YOU DON'T LIKE-"

"WELL, GIVEN THAT YOU'RE SUCH A _WONDERFUL _FATHER, I'D BE ASHAMED IF I DIDN'T REMARK ABOUT YOUR BAD PARENTING, PARTICULARLY WHEN IT'S HAPPENING RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! ALL THE TIME, IT'S "BIANCA THIS, BIANCA THAT", YOU ACT COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS TO THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE ANOTHER CHILD, ONE THAT ACTUALLY NEEDED YOU!"

There was a still, icy silence for a moment, both deities looking as if they were about to attack one another. Black flames crackled and hissed across Hades' pale hands, flickering with a bluish tint. Demeter, her lips pursed in disapproval, clutched her hands to the hem of her dress and stared defiantly at him, unwilling to retract her previous statement.

The silence was broken by a sudden flaring up from Hestia's hearth, as the flames erupted in a burst of shocking golden-red, before a small, half-asleep figure stumbled out of the fire, rubbing his fists into his eyes and looking childishly grumpy. Poking halfway out of his brown pajama pockets was a familiar wooden spoon, along with the worn old copy of _The Odyssey._

The gathered occupants of the room stared at him, too surprised to speak. The visitor chose to ignore them, apparently either unafraid or too sleepy to recognize the danger of the current situation, and instead walked quietly over to Demeter, tugging gently on a fold of her dress as he looked up, large dark eyes sleepy, and mumbled quietly, "Mom, can you read me the ending, please? I couldn't sleep with all the noise..."

For a moment, it looked like the appearance of her charge had stumped the Harvest goddess, but after a moment, she composed herself and nodded, scooping Nico off the floor and into her arms. A worn, stuffed armchair appeared, and she sat down, Nico on her lap, and cracked open the book, beginning to read aloud. Hades gave a look of absolute shock, the flames on his hands vanishing like a conjuror's trick.

Apollo shivered slightly in relief, returning to his Cabin to resume healing the injured. The rest of the room's occupants let out sighs of relief, though no one chose to remove themselves from their relatively safer positions.

Off in the background, the Stoll brothers took advantage of their current "wallflower" status and took out one of the cellphones they'd taken off one of New York's sleeping mortals, silently snapping photographs of the Lord of the Dead's ludicrously mystified expression at being suddenly, completely ignored. It was as if he'd suddenly been deemed to be as noticeable as the mandatory potted plant in a secretary's office.

Gradually, the tension in the room lessened somewhat, leading some of the assembled demigods and satyrs to cluster together again, the exhausting events of the day, and the past weeks, finally taking their toll. A few of the older campers began snoring, which was, unfortunately, amplified by the high, beautiful ceiling. Tyson had curled up, snoring like a foghorn, underneath an oversized picnic blanket provided by Hestia when no proper blankets could be found for someone his size; the other Cyclops were sitting nearby, passing around a Cyclops-grade industrial-size jar of chunky peanut butter. The nature spirits clustered near Grover, weaving beds out of soft grasses and reeds Demeter handed out to them; Grover, having eaten his given share of the soft grasses and reeds, was sleeping on a bale of unused hay which had been given by Hestia to Blackjack as a midnight snack, and was using a spare backpack for a pillow.

The various deities had dispersed for the night, finding places to sleep in the undestroyed parts of Olympus instead of returning to their own domains, so that in the morning they might see their children again. Hades had gone back to the Underworld, a decidedly sulky expression on his face as he left. Persephone had chosen to sleep in one of the intact houses nearby, rather than endure her husband's black mood.

Nico was curled in Demeter's arms, trying valiantly to stay awake. They'd finished reading _The Odyssey_, and now he felt tired again, but he didn't want to sleep just yet. Demeter had promised him a surprise, and he would've felt a bit embarrassed at being so excited about it, had he not felt so sleepy. A soft chuckle lit up the air, as the goddess whispered, "Now, close your eyes..."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes instead at the age-old childish expression, but obeyed nonetheless. A few seconds later, he felt something soft and leathery brush the back of his neck, before a slight weight settled at his throat, warm and soothing and smelling faintly of that wonderfully familiar smell of freshly baked bread and cereal.

"Open them."

Nico opened his eyes, to find himself staring into a small, old-fashioned mirror. His reflection was different, though: he now sported what appeared to be a braided leather choker, the material a deep emerald green with a tint of wheat-gold and earthy brown. The centerpiece appeared to be a quarter-sized medallion with the look of an official wax seal, cast in gold, being flanked on either side with a gold-cast cut of wheat.

_What...what is this?_

Demeter's voice was slightly mischievous as she urged, "Go on, look more closely at it." Obligingly, he leaned forwards, examining the medallion. The coin-shaped piece seemed to have been made from a melted-down drachma, the surface bumpy and grooved like a freshly plowed field. But that wasn't what caught his attention, what made his breath catch in his throat and his eyes suddenly feel like they were stinging from tears.

The medallion was two-sided. On one side was a 3-dimensional stamp of a chaff of freshly-cut wheat crossing a full harvest cornucopia of fruit, berries, and vegetables, glittering with tints of bronze and rainbow colors. The other side held a spiral of words, the familiar, elegant, spidery script forming lettering for a single sentence: _To Nico, honorary son of the House of Demeter. _

_I'm not going to cry, I won't cry, I won't cry, I'm not going to make a big deal out of this, I'm not-_

He felt the tears running down, a watery smile already threatening to form, and knew that promise had already been rendered obsolete. Instead, he buried his face into his mother's shoulder, his body racked with sobs, whispering a quiet, "Thank you, Mom..."


	17. Chapter 14: In Sickness, We Look To Gods

When he'd finally managed, albeit with slight embarrassment, to calm down, Nico had fallen asleep curled up against Demeter's side, listening to her read aloud a chapter from a book taken the library-basket she'd summoned. As she'd spoken softly of the wind blowing through the trees on a warm summer's day, he'd become progressively more and more tired, until he'd closed his eyes amongst a sea of words detailing rabbits in waistcoats, flamingoes and hedgehogs in a strange game of croquet, and a tea party ran by a hare, a madman, and a dormouse in a teapot. _Curiouser and curiouser, huh..._

Yet, when he opened his eyes, the first thing that registered was that he was warm, buried underneath what felt like a blanket. He blinked, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, and looked down. A bed, sized undoubtedly with magic to be charmed to his current small form, surrounded him, along with a quilted blanket that swamped him in heat.

_This can't be right, I fell asleep with her holding me. So why am I in a bed? _

The demigod sighed, knowing his mother had probably done it. It had likely only been a few hours since he'd been put to bed, but he couldn't help but feel slightly put out that she wasn't present. Almost absentmindedly, a hand drifted to his throat, feeling the warmth of the choker. The drachma-medallion was warmer than he remembered; unsure if this was due to Demeter's magic or extended time with his own body heat, he decided to savor the tangible gesture of affection as it was, and held the medallion for several moments, rolling it across his palm. The indents in the metal already felt familiar.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, looking around. He was still at Olympus, but a few changes had been made in the Hall of the Gods. The ornate, enormous room had exchanged the torches and candles for numerous golden orbs, shining like miniature suns, that floated gently across the ceiling like huge, wingless fireflies, dragging trails of golden fire through the air like tiny comets. _Apollo's work, no doubt. _

Numerous campers and nature spirits were sprawled out across the floor, huddled under blankets, jackets, and in nests of grass and hastily conjured sleeping bags. The Cyclops were snoring loudly, one clutching the jar of chunky peanut butter like an oversized, bizarre teddy bear substitute. Grover had a bit of hay in his mouth, half-chewed as he let out the occasional bleat, before rolling over onto his side. The Stoll brothers were leaning on each other, sleeping side by side next to a camper from the Athena Cabin, who had a hand dangling into a glass of water, and several scribbles across his forehead in vomit-green ink.

But something was wrong, he could feel it. The feeling of disorder was insidious, a dim, faintly burning itch that started up from inside and welled upwards to encompass his whole body, like an ill-fitting shirt that clung, sticky and repugnant, to his skin, as if in need of a good washing.

_Why is this happening? Is there something wrong with me? _

The air was thick, cloying, as if humid and full of water; Nico coughed slightly, breathing deeply to get the most oxygen possible. A faint odor clung to the air, musty and dark, as if he was in a graveyard in the Deep South on a hot midsummer's night. A sharp, metallic tang, like new copper, burned his nostrils: blood. Blood, and smoke, and ashes. He coughed again, suddenly feeling as if he could not get enough air. The echo of a howl ghosted through his senses, burning as it rang in his ears like a death knell, the mournful cry of a church bell ringing to alert a town of someone's passing from the world of the living.

_But there's no graveyard here, no bodies, no tombstones, no funeral. No one died here-_

He stopped himself, before he could finish the sentence that he understood instinctively was an utter lie. Someone _had _died here, and very recently.

Luke.

_But I was told that he was going to try for rebirth, so why...?_

The thought was driven from his mind, along with any others, as a sharp, searing pain suddenly ripped across his mind, spreading outwards and burning through him in a white-hot agony, stinging and biting and needle-sharp all at once. The sensation was incredible, bursting across all conscious thought until all that he registered was _pain, pain, pain, _and all he that could do was curl into the tightest, smallest ball that he could manage, and struggle not to let out the screams that tried to force themselves into the open air, desperate to be heard. His muscles burned, tendrils of needling, shredding pain sunk their claws into his flesh, pulling and tugging so a million tiny hooks seemed to have latched on and were trying to pull him in all directions at once, slowly but surely ripping him apart.

It hurt. Oh, by the gods, did it _burn._

Image after image flitted across his battered mind, blazing into existence and snuffing out a split second later, all jumbled and confused, like a tangled roll of old film. The colors were inconsistent, sometimes bright to the point of blazing neon, the next faded and washed out. Sounds echoed across a backdrop of a madcap kaleidoscope of pictures, voices skimming across like pebbles skipped across a lake, sometimes loud, other times dull and faint, as if far way. Every so often, a sharp, burning flash of green burst across his vision, along with a voice, raspy and fearful, hissing out messages that made his skin crawl and his throat close up with fear.

_He wants his Mommy, but Mommy isn't here right now, just the Scary Lady with the Scary Voice that looks like her but isn't her, and when she comes he knows to hide. But she always, always finds him, in the end. __The closet door rips open like a typhoon's wrenched it off; he presses against the dark wood of the back, trying, trying to stay out of reach. "No, not my son, not his fate, no, no, no!" Green, green, so much, too much, hands grasping his shoulders too tightly, that wild, mad look that branded into his soul from his earliest memories, that awful rasp that burned his ears and made him flee to the dark of the closet, just to get away, get away-_

_"You're my son, I promise you. When I was your age, I crawled out of my cradle and-" Disappointment, welling up like poison, burning through him, his eyes stinging with tears. He won't look, can't bear to look at the face of the one who never, ever bothered to even visit, he was just another in a long line of children-_

_A flash of a concerned face, eyes dark with worry, a blade glinting like a slice of silver in one bruised hand. "You okay? That last monster mauled you pretty well-" _

_"No, no more monsters! Go away!" A girl, no more than seven, with hair curled like a princess's, grey eyes sharp with an intelligence too strong to be normal-_

_The night is cold, biting into his ragged, stolen jacket; his girls, his family are cold, too, huddling together as he tries to make a fire. It's raining outside the barn they've decided to hide in for the night, the rain howling with the wind, thunder cracking like the gods are playing a skywide game of tenpin bowling. He passes his jacket, not saying a word, to the shivering form of their youngest family member, and the smile that lights up the grey eyes warms him far more than the fire he so determinedly tries to ignite. "There, better now, hmm?" "Yes, thanks, Luke." _

_"So, you're one of Hermes' kids, huh? Yeah, good luck with that." Rage bubbling up like hot lava, his fists clenched, the urge to hit that calm, silent face of the older camper, one who held that damnable air of resigned acceptance that being a demigod, being made and then stuffed into an overcrowded cabin and ignored, was perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable, perfectly fine-_

_"Apples, you need to get the apples from the Garden of-" Nervous, prideful, worried. Maybe, maybe this time he'll look, maybe this time he'll see-_

_A glint off the blade in the hot afternoon sun, a nervously smiling camper with green eyes looking up, so innocent, so niave, so unaware of the fates of demigods like him. "Hey, can you teach me how to hold this properly? I've never fought with a sword before-"_

_The darkness, clogging his senses and fouling his body, his eyes burning as gold overtakes the iris, and a laugh, broken and insane, bubbles up and breaks free before he can muster enough sense to cage it. Breath, pulled in and pushed out by lungs no longer his, hangs in the icy air like crystals of liquid diamond. Freedom, yet in the irony of giving up everything he was, and is, and will be. The laugh rips the air apart, and the cold of the sarcophagus burns his skin. No, not his skin, not anymore, never anymore, but does it even matter? If this works, they'll burn, they'll stumble and be crushed and then the darkness will gleam like Backbiter in the moonlight-_

_The air is foul, the drink is ash, the light burns his eyes, and his body stings as the cold arms of the Styx embrace him and the cold sinks into his bones, biting, biting, biting, tearing into the fabric of his soul as he thinks, desperation setting in as he casts about for his anchor. Breath is crushed from his lungs as grey eyes, sharp and bright as an owl in the twilight, flicker across his mind's eye, and he latches out, takes hold and pulls, pulls as hard as he possibly can-_

_The gloom of the Garden Emporium flickers with artificial light. The snack machine hums mechanically in the corner; the makeshift throne digs into his sides like glass, his elbows sticking out like the branches of a tree. Monsters roam the outside, and he wonders why he isn't among them, for isn't he just as they are? The thought is darkly amusing, and then rage flits across his mind, the wild rage of the being that lusts to take over the world. He wonders, not for the first time, if playing second-fiddle is worth it. A brief try to wrestle himself back; defeat nestles, a bitter taste on his tongue as he watches Him speak to the troops like some arrogant, icy general. No point for a leaf to fight the winds of a hurricane, and yet-_

_The city in ruins, people sleeping, so proud, so stupid, so foolish in their self-importance. Mortality is bitter. No wonder the apple was forbidden, it was too sweet to take and not want more. Monsters, tearing across the landscape, smudging the mortal realm with their impossibility, ink stains across a white blank slate of ignorant humanity. **Let them come**, He whispers, **let them come, and let them die. They will burn for me**. Backbiter stings in cold across his palm, then warm with scarlet as it sinks into a demigod, who chokes and sputters, blood coughed up as an incredulous expression of wonder at his own death blooms across the too-young face, and then the body drops, sliding wetly off the blade. Crimson spreads out like a pool around them, soaking his sandals; the red squelches between his toes, a clogged, sticky feeling. The sky is dark, poisoned, thunder rumbling, and it is all he can do not to laugh at their sickening bravado in the face of defeat, cry at the deaths of so many that have died for the causes of this war, this sick, sick farce of reality-_

_Pain. Unimaginably horrific pain, burning, burning, burning. He is nothing now, just a ruined conduit for a power too strong for such a weak frame. Blood pours forth from the knife wound, such a tiny nick, but it served its purpose. Achilles Heel, indeed. Kronos drains away like so much dirty rainwater down a drain pipe, and his echoing howls of rage and frustration serve as a backdrop to his body's agony. _

_She is holding him, him, tainted and useless now. The ashes are around him, a circling ring of black, and a thought bubbles up from the fragmented bits of his mind: his soul is black as the Styx water, filthy, filthy, filthy. Breathing is harder now; his lungs smart and burn, blood filling his mouth, choking him as he forces out words, trying to get his message across before the darkness creeping across his vision overtakes him. "Did you love me?" "I thought I did, once."_

_Darkness, echoing, squeezing darkness that closes in and smothers him, wrapping around him like a full-body straitjacket, crushing, cold, stifling, suffocating, sound fading, light gone, just dark, dark, dark, but, by the gods, he was free again-_

Nico shuddered, feeling nauseous. His body was screaming at him to uncurl and stretch, the stiffness of laying there for so long, unmoving, making itself known, his entire being wracked with uncontrollable spasms as an icy, impossibly deep ache branded itself into his soul. The room spun; he shut his eyes, trying to quell the flow of images, thoughts, memories that were not his. A migraine beat against the inside of his head, striking like a pickaxe into a wall of ice on a mountain, as the hooking sensation of slowly being torn apart resumed, tugging harshly. Spots bloomed, swimming across his shaking vision; for a split second, his body seized up entirely, he couldn't move, he couldn't _breathe_-

A sputtering, choked bid for air; fingers clenched and unclenched, nails digging into his palms so deep that he felt the skin give way, the stinging pain and the heat as blood rushed up to coat the cuts. But the pain was worth it; the distraction, though mild, was enough to shock him awake.

_What in the name of the gods was that? That...that was horrible..._

He shivered, the nauseous feeling from earlier surging full force; for a moment, he clasped both hands over his mouth, taking deep breaths through his nose as he willed himself not to vomit. _Why is it that right when you need something to puke in, there's never any bucket?_

It took several long, torturous moments of dry-heaving for the nausea to pass, after which he collapsed against the mattress, utterly exhausted, shivering as skin made contact with the cool sheets. The choker around his neck seemed to press inward with its light weight, and his fingers latched on, craving comfort. Darkness closed in, pressing insistently on his eyes until they grew too heavy too keep open; sleep came heavily, tugging him down harshly in its unrelenting hold. Fever dreams burned through his mind, trailing dark, murky images, fogged as if seen through a muggy, water-clogged bit of glass; sounds came through tinny, faint, and hounded by static, as if receiving a broadcast from a station miles and miles out of reach. He slept uneasily, drifting in and out of consciousness as he felt heat surge through his body, then freezing, clenching fingers of cold reaching into his bones, until he couldn't tell how hot or how cold he was, only that as long as he was awake, it became unbearable.

Dimly, as he drifted in and out of the realm of sleep, he could hear voices, panicked voices.

_"What the heck happened? He looks like he's about to keel over, for crying out loud!"_

_"I don't know, just...just someone get an Apollo camper, quick!"_

_"They're all asleep, I'm not going to risk getting stuck full of arrows like a human pincushion!"_

_"Then get Apollo!"_

_"I CAN'T FIND APOLLO!"_

_"Then recite horrible haikus, he'll show up then!"_

_"Hey_,_ why's the kid look like death warmed over?"_

_"Now's not the time to make jokes, idiot. He looks really ill!"_

_"Ok, ok, let me get some help from the Apollo Cabin, then." _

_"We can't do that, they're all exhausted, probably wouldn't even wake up if we doused them with a firehose. Go get Apollo."_

_"I don't know any bad poetry, and I suck at singing, and I can't play any musical instruments!"_

_"Then go to the hearth and call for Hestia! She'll help!"_

Nico struggled to open his eyes; every bit of his body felt sluggish, heavy, as if his muscles had been replaced with wet cement. His throat closed up when he tried to speak. _Why can't I do anything? I can't even open my eyes, much less talk! _

Time passed strangely, unable to be discerned properly; Nico felt the odd sensation of fingers brushing against his forehead, quick and light as a butterfly's wing, drawn back as if burned. More muttering, why so much muttering?

He felt his chin being tilted upwards, eyes peering at him; whoever it was, they didn't stay long enough for his dazed mind to make attempts at recognition. The mutters in the background grew louder, more animated; flurries of movement erupted around him, blurs of colors and vaguely humanoid shapes darting back and forth, too quickly for him to keep track.

Nico shivered; his blanket had been tucked around him, but he still felt cold, the icy feeling clutching his bones painfully, digging in with frozen fingers. He wanted someone to tell him what was going on, what was wrong with him, and if it could be fixed. He wanted, he wanted...

_Mom. Mom, where are you? Please come back, I miss you, I don't understand this, it's too much, too much-_

Fingers clutched at the choker around his neck; his mind was a swarm of images, jumbled, confused, clinging like cobwebs and buzzing incessantly. He wanted the noise to stop, the memories to go away, the horrible, tearing feeling to end.

He wanted his mother. The medallion glinted, a thin slice of gold between his fingers, white with dread.

As darkness spread across his vision once more, consuming him, he felt the familiar surge of warmth, smelled that faint scent of freshly-baked bread. He still didn't let go of his choker.

* * *

**For those of you that want my head on a stick for not updating for several weeks, I was busy with summer homework. Take your complaints to my teacher, who will happily laugh at you and then send more homework. **

**For those of you worried that Nico is in horrible, horrible danger, I can't really tell you not to worry, because this happens to be something that I never really saw fully addressed in the books, which annoyed me. Kronos, as we all know, is a big, terrifying, manipulative Titan lord who ended up cast into a million bitty pieces after Luke stabbed himself with Backbiter and "exorcised" himself. **

**I always thought that there would be more to that; after all, Kronos was, essentially, a terribly malicious spiritual entity who possessed a demigod's body in order to exist on the mortal plane before assuming full Titan form, a form Mr. D explained was literally so powerful that just being in the same general area of his presence would vaporize you clean out of existence. So, really, when he was "cast out" of Luke, I thought that he'd still have enough power for any residual bits of himself to hang around his "place of exorcism" for a bit, so to speak. And since he's shown as the "bad guy", and Luke died a pretty horrible, agonizing death to get rid of him (after all, it takes a lot going against self-preservation instinct to stab yourself to death), his "leftover spirit remains" would, in all likelihood, be very moody, angry, and violent. **

**Nico has proven in previous books in the series that he has the power to both summon the dead from the afterlife to the living world, and, running opposite that, send them from the living world to the afterlife. So, it made sense, at least to me, that, given his death-related powers, he'd be very finely attuned to the spiritual energies left behind from Luke's death and the whole "suicide-by-blade-exorcism-to-save-the-world-thing " . **

**Now, here's where it gets kind of weird: since Nico is a demigod, he's still mortal, despite the "half-god and awesome powers" issue, and thus, he's still very capable of mortal injuries and health issues. Even in the book series, it's been proven that overuse of your powers is detrimental to demigods, leaving varying levels of fatigue, pain, etc. Given that he's in a room where a demigod _and _a Titan both died (well, one died and the other was scattered into a bunch of tiny pieces, which still sounds very painful), he's going to have issues coping with the residual energies. **

**What I've done to Nico is something very similar to a book series that I've been reading, _The Business of Death (The Death Works Omnibus). _This series has an entire cast of characters with abilities like Nico's, including being able to send people to the afterlife by acting as "human conduits" through which the dead can pass from the plane of the living to that of the dead. However, the effects on these people (Psychopomps, as they're called) are, like with demigods, more and more dangerous as time goes on: the more souls you "pomp" into the afterlife, the more tired, drained, and susceptible to illness you get, and every "pomp" that you do physically taxes you, leaving you feeling increasingly ill and pained as time goes on; some Pomps were even referenced as dying due to overuse of their powers.**

**The more violent the death was, the more pain and negative emotion was experienced, or the worse the soul is, this all influences the "pomp" to more negatively affect the Psychopomp; vomiting, nausea, fainting, blurry vision, impaired senses, and even hallucinations are all symptoms of "overpomping". **

** That tearing, hooking sensation and sick feeling that Nico experiences is essentially the primary sensation of "overpomping", which is when you either "pomp" too many souls at once without proper rest and help ("pomping" is usually done with a partner or two to share the spiritual load)...or you "pomp" a soul that was a particularly nasty one, or died a very nasty death. In Nico's case, he sensed both, hence the horrible reaction. The only reason why he didn't feel the effects sooner was because the huge amount of energy from the other people in the room during Hades' and Demeter's argument blocked enough of it that he didn't notice until later, when everyone was asleep.**


	18. Chapter 15: Fever of the bone

**Sorry about the delay in updating in any of my stories, I've been busy with finishing my summer homework and coming back to school again. Why do teachers like to assign so much work? After two hours apiece per class a day, the concept of a student forgetting at least the overall concept of the day's lesson is very low, I think. Oh well, nothing I can do but tough it out, at least the education's free for a while yet. Although the block schedule is _still _messing with people...**

**If you read the last chapter's notes on Nico's "condition" and you still can't fully get into what's wrong with his health right now, don't worry, it'll become clearer later on. For those of you wondering if Demeter or Hades will be making any appearances, you're in luck, though Hades will not appear in this chapter. For now, please enjoy the overdramatic, sad, somewhat angst-filled fluff moments that I've scattered about like popcorn. The next chapter should be done by next week, and will likely be longer.**

* * *

The light was cold and unfeeling, sterile as a blank sheet of paper, washing his skin sallow and fragile, every blue vien glaringly blunt against the greyish-yellow tint. Every part of his body ached, burning with a cold so deep he felt as if his bones would crystallize and break apart like shards of glass. Breathing was laborious, every intake a struggle to grasp, every release like the jagged edge of a bowie knife digging into the back of his throat on the way out, lungs creaking like old, rotted floorboards. The hospital clothing was strikingly white, blinding in its clean, empty coloring, leaving the small, shuddering figure swamped in a thin, gauzelike swath of cotton, a delicate cocoon of sterility and bleach fumes.

He was adrift in some vast, dark sea, afloat upon a raft of rickety, precarious semi-consciousness. Voices swam past, turbulent and unstable, the backdrop of his own troubled breathing. Sometimes sound would increase, beating against his mind like the pounding of the drums of war, echoing like the howl of a banshee one moment, the next faint as the whisper of a dying fire in winter. Other times, the sound would die off, drowning in a painful silence that curdled his thoughts and made him want to scream, cry, anything to make an audible noise. No such sounds escaped his lips; it was as if he lacked a voice.

The huge, impressive hospital of Olympus was mainly for upholding the status of godly prestige and grace, given that most, if not all, of Olympus' residents, be they magical beings, mythical "beasts", minor or major deities, or visiting higher beings, held enough magic, had healing abilities amongst their powers, or knew enough medical practices to keep themselves in fine health almost always. Yet the hospital was there, all the same, though the patients were usually those who had drained themselves of their magical cores, done accidental self-harmful spell casting, tangled with a beast far beyond their caliber, or had simply been foolish and arrogant enough to try their hands at gaining the affections of a lover of one of the higher gods or goddesses (in this case, most of the patients had been struck by lightning). Apollo, who had established the place himself, would visit the hospital every month or so, taking time to visit and comfort patients, introduce new medicines, or advise new healers. The routine was largely unchanged, save for the occasional wayward demigod hero who turned up as a mess of broken bones, shattered pride, and a medical file detailing the latest run-in with stealing treasure from a fire-breathing dragon.

But, every so often there would come through the doors a different case: as of several hours ago, the newest hospital resident was a certain magically de-aged demigod, now firmly embedded in a spacious cot in the hospital's rarely-used Emergency Medical Ward. Or rather, the ward had been largely unused until...recent events, which had led to over a third of Olympus' inhabitants to take refuge, seeking help for broken bones, drained magic, magically-caused burns, sword impalements, severed or eaten limbs, and many other things on a terrifyingly-increased general medical file for the overall hospital injury record. Nico was one of many who had been brought in for medical assistance in the past few days, and, like many of the other patients, had yet to fully wake up from his pain-addled stupor.

A large, ornate crystal vase, filled with mineral water and a generous spray of warmly inviting yellow roses, stood by his cot upon a bedside cabinet. The flowers, a painfully stark contrast to the wan complexion of the patient they were for, provided a splash of almost obnoxiously bright colors in the otherwise mostly dull room. All around, patients of all shapes, sizes, and possible species variations were lying, limp and mostly unresponsive, in the freshly starched sheets and blankets of their cots, shallow breathing filling the magically-sterile air. Visitors were scarce, adding to the melancholy air, although a few scattered satyrs, nature spirits, and fae sat in wooden hospital chairs by some of the beds, talking quietly to the occupants and exchanging nervous, uneasy looks. Nurses, mostly nymphs and tree spirits, bustled back and forth, carrying steaming cups of golden nectar, squat little cakes of ambrosia, and small bowls full of ground herbs, water, and pills of numerous shapes and dull colors. Conversation was hushed, kept subdued by the gravity of the situation. Bedside tables were mainly bare, for the most part, save for the little balls of warm, gentle, buttery-yellow sunlight that could be kept as a lamp or reading light, and the occasional bunch of flowers from a worried friend or relative.

Nico lay in the too-white hospital bed, limp and silent except for his labored breathing. A bowl of healing water, steaming gently and smelling faintly of wildflowers, sat next to the vase of roses, a damp washcloth dangling off the edge of the bowl. The white hospital clothes swamped his too-small frame, highlighting the drastic paling of skin within the past hours; blue veins threaded across his arms and shoulders, cobalt spider webs of tangled weaving. His skin was sweaty, his face flushed with fever, hair sticking against the mercifully cool pillowcase. Despite the heating and cooling charms spelled on both the blanket and his clothing to keep him stable, his temperature had fluctuated up and down for some time, changing from hot to cold to every variation in between, leaving him nauseous and barely coherent. Sleep came in clumps of feverish, blurred nightmares, fogged with heat; several times since his arrival, he'd woken up, dazed, unable to recognize his surroundings or answer questions, and had been dragged back into the clutches of dead sleep only moments later. When he'd been brought food and drink in the form of a light vegetable soup and water, he'd found his throat hurt too much to swallow more than a few spoonfuls of soup and a sip or two of water, before exhaustion pulled him back into unconsciousness again; when he'd next awoken, he'd been nearly overcome with a harsh, gripping urge to vomit, and had barely managed to force himself to keep the meager portion of his meal down, the effort leaving him dizzy and shaken, eyes shut tight and forehead pressed firmly to the cool bed sheets. A short while later, his efforts proved futile, and he ended up vomiting into the bedside waste basket, bile leaving a clogged, sour, putrid aftertaste.

He was not sure how long he'd been here, or how long he would be here. All that could penetrate the feverish fog of his pain-addled mind was the faint, instinctive understanding that he was safe here. After all, _s__he _was here, too. Albeit sitting in a magically-conjured armchair beside the bed, an armchair that seemed, to his pain-wracked mind, a thousand miles away. but she was _right there_. Reading softly to him the rest of yesterday's bedtime story, whispering about the mad queen and the white rabbit with a trumpet and the army of cards who painted the roses red because white roses were not allowed in the gardens. A hand drifted gently through his sweat-soaked locks, tucking a dark strand behind his left ear as a gentle, repoving hum lit the air.

"They're not keeping you cool enough." The voice was warm, soft and sweet as a fresh blanket from the laundry on a cool autumn day, but the words were annoyed. Nico could tell that she wasn't happy that, despite his hospital treatment, his condition wasn't improving.

_And why wouldn't she be unhappy? I don't seem to be getting better. She wants me to get better._

The tangible affection in that simple fact felt like a cooling balm to his feverish mind. He basked in the knowledge, feeling the daze of his illness lessen slightly.

Dimly, his mind registered the sound of the washcloth getting soaked, squeezed, and then blissful coolness lay down upon his fevered brow. He wished he could thank her, but he couldn't find enough strength to speak, at least not enough to form coherent words. So instead he focused on humming slightly, putting as much effort into it as he could, and when cool, wet fingers danced across his forehead, delicately spreading the washcloth fully, he knew she'd understood.


	19. Chapter 16: Fraying Thread, Frigid Dread

**Again, I'm sorry about the delay, school is a very important part of daily life now, and I'm trying not to overtax myself with my current workload and schedule as it is. I don't mean to keep delaying updates like this, but schoolwork is important to keep my grades as pristine as possible, my family's schedule is very busy, and I've still got projects to work on as well. The afterschool exam preparation classes are quite long, also, so the time between updates will become more and more lengthy. Hopefully, none of you will kill me (I don't think the Lord of the Dead will allow me to take my computer along with me to the underworld). Oh, and for those of you paying very close attention, you may want to take note of all the morbid, unsettling references to death and darkness in this chapter (they're rather important).**

** I'll try to finish and post the rest of this chapter later this weekend!**

* * *

Ice burned away in his bones, chilling the marrow and biting with an aching finality into his flesh. The body was drenched in icy sweat, complex networks of cobalt-blue viens tracing rivers of frost through the landscape of paper-white skin. His lungs shuddered, sinking and floating masses within his wasteland of a body. The air stung with the bitter edge of medical magic, dampening his awareness like the clinging hold of wet silk. Eyes fluttered open slightly, closing only seconds later as his aching body drained away at his meager strength. Sleep twisted through him, biting and tangled as the thorny stems of roses, unfurling fogged, shadowed nightmares and dreamscapes through his mind like swaths of dark ink blooming through water.

The demigod shivered in his darkened sleep, breath rattling and raw, curling into a tightly wound ball of trembling limbs and too-pale skin, fingers clutching at the bed sheets in the death grip of a man about to be ripped from the face of the world. The blanket was soaked in frigid sweat, entombing him in the fabric embrace, tight and choking as a straitjacket. The air hummed with the static movements of restless visitors, the faint _swish _and rustle of hospital scrubs, the tinkling little clinks of the medicine mortar and pestle somewhere down the hall. Patients lay, limp and quiet, in their beds, their silence broken only by the occasional cough, and raspy, uneven breathing. Shadows rustled in the corners and seams of the room and its occupants, casting the room into misshapen darkness, pooling among sheet wrinkles and under beds and tables like clots of congealing blood. The bedside lights were out, tiny suns drifting down the horizons of the bedside tables and sinking into the ether of nothingness, vanishing like the snuffing of a house's candle flames at the end of the evening.

Demeter stared, inflinching and steady, at the shuddering, piteous being huddled before her, her eyes fixed firmly upon the wan, thin face, watching silently as feverish whimpers and mumbled cries spilled forth, tainting the air with the burn of woe. Gentle fingers dipped themselves into the cooled bowl of healing water, before they reached out to smooth back a lock of sweat-soaked hair, the fair digits dancing gentle steps of cold against his brow as they went. Nico's eyes fluttered open slightly, peering out through the crack of sight to gaze upon his rouser, mouth already shaping the warmth of that sweet, precious word. Panic flared within as he tried to distinguish if the person at his bedside was real or not.

"Mom...?" His voice was raspy, dry as the crunch of the first dead leaves of autumn.

The goddess hummed slightly, soft notes of sound lessening the haze of fever, even if only for a moment. "I'm here."

Nico felt a weak rush of relief at the words, his fingers lessening their chokehold on the sheets in favor of stretching upwards to reach the gentle hand stroking his brow, as if to reassure himself that the goddess was not some sort of feverish hallucination. The weight of her hand, tangible and firm, was enough to console his muddled mind, and he sank back against his pillow, the flickers of panic draining away like muddied rainwater.

"Thank you...". His voice gave out, unable to withstand the weight of more words.

A moment of silence, as the two drank in each other's company. Almost absentmindedly, Demeter patted his head, running her fingers through his hair as she conjured a glass of water; a split second was left to determine if Nico could hold the glass in his trembling fingers. When he took a tentative grasp upon the cool surface, the tremors suddenly worsened, and the glass dropped, landing on the bed and spilling the contents across his legs. The demigod looked up in silent apology, shame flickering in his eyes as he watched the water sink into the fabric, soaking the blanket into a soggy, darkened mess.

Demeter made no move to signal she'd noticed the dropped glass; a flicker of movement, the glass shimmering for a split second like the haze of a desert mirage, and suddenly the bed was dry, the glass was full, and Nico found the cool rim of the glass held to his lips, the water lapping insistently at his mouth. The quiet, gentle eyes of the goddess before him held no pity, no judgement, only a simple command: _drink up, you need fluids to get better._

Nico obeyed silently, sipping the water slowly, despite the begging of his bone-dry throat to indulge in a good, long, drink instead.

For a long while, there was no talking, only the quiet companionship of two that needed no words to understand. Demeter got up from the rocking chair and sat down on the edge of his cot; only a moment and a struggling, fumbling attempt to move, and then Nico was curled up at her side, head laying in her lap, eyes closing within seconds. This time, as sleep came for him, he did not fight, knowing that he was safe.

There was no better cure in all the world for nightmares, than a mother, after all. Who else in all the realms was as good a veteran in the art of comfort?

As he drifted off into the darkness, Demeter ruffled his hair slightly, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead.

* * *

Somewhere in the distance, the yarn, frayed and worried, a green so dark it gleamed the black of ink, was held up for inspection.

_Snip._

* * *

**No, this is not the end, merely a new part of this tale. I've not killed him, I'm too fond of Nico for that. But you'll have to wait and see what I plan to do with him; after all, you can't have a fairytale without a good ****villain, hmm?**


End file.
